Letters to Zell (6 page)

Princess Briar R. Rose

Somnolent Tower Castle

South Road, Grimmland

Zell,

I apologize profusely for your concern over what transpired at the Swinging Vine. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t want you to worry a bit or waste a drop more ink on the matter.

In fact, you’ll be proud to know I’ve invited Maro over for tea this afternoon to try and begin our association all over again. A brand new start. I’m going to serve her lunch in the tower so that she can see just how “intriguing” the whole sleep affair was. I haven’t been up there since just after I woke up, and I think it would do us both good to have some perspective.

I’ve decided I’ve been taking my frustrations out on Maro because she seems to get the things she desires so easily—freedom, friends, admirers, dresses, et cetera. Look how easily she entered our lives. A proper lady has to prove her pedigree, but Maro inserted herself into our circle and no one said a thing. I’ve decided it has to be because people want to know more about her. She is a walking puzzle, practically brimming with things unsaid—a prime example of that intrigue she seems to like so well. I’ve never had a shred of mystery about me—my whole life has been fodder for the
Tattler
.

First, it was the plight of a young princess, whose Pages sentenced her to death by spindle prick. Then it was the hubris of Fred, trying to change our future. After that, it was the sleep of the same young princess, while the Fairy Godmothers saved the world from ripping apart. And after Figgy repaired my Pages, Henry’s “bravery” was retold and lauded throughout the land.

I don’t know what came over me when Maro asked me about it. I should have been happy to tell the story the way Figgy arranged it. I’m sure Henry
meant
to fight through the brambles and wake me up with a kiss. I believe in my Pages, I do. Just because one tiny part didn’t happen the way it was supposed to doesn’t mean that the rest of the Pages are nullified.

My past isn’t Maro’s fault. I have to wrest this unpleasantness from inside of me. What if Henry saw me pouring a drink over someone’s head? He’d be appalled. Or maybe he’d clap and cheer. I don’t think either reaction is what I’m hoping for. What kind of wife and mother (not to mention queen!) does such things in public?

I finally decided on the design for the table decorations at Bianca’s reception. They’re sculptures, and I think you’d like them because there’s something to represent each of us. A soufflé dish (CeCi) is filled with a mountain of pink roses (my favorite flower), and on top sit the toy unicorns you sent. All of this is accented with white ribbons (an allusion to Bianca’s name). I doubt my description is doing the centerpieces justice, but hopefully Bianca will see the symbolism and understand how much we all love her and want her to live Happily Ever After, even if she insists on mucking it all up. Don’t tell her, but I’m glad I don’t have to decorate anything else. All this creativity is taxing.

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you the most important news. I’m going to adopt a pet. You know, for company and character building. As soon as I wake up from my afternoon nap, I’m heading to Pets & Boots. Maybe Puss can set me up with a nice fluffy puppy or a luxuriant kitten or a parrot that I can talk to or maybe a grand, colorful fish in a grand, colorful bowl. I haven’t decided.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Love,

Rory

F
rom the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

Crystal Palace

North Road, Grimmland

Dear Zell,

Edmund returned from his latest diplomatic summit in Wonderland three days ago. Negotiations on the Bunny Byway unraveled after the Queen of Hearts beheaded several contractors. As you might suspect, we’re both glad he’s back. He slept for the entirety of his first day home, celebrated his homecoming for the duration of the second, and this morning we finished catching up and began discussing the future.

He wanted to know what I thought of the design modifications he’d drawn for the Byway and what I’d been doing while he was away. He asked if Lucinda had refrained from meddling, and if Darling and Sweetie had found hobbies yet. (He finds their moping understandable, yet irritating.) He also told me that his parents would return from their Sea of Dreams cruise in time for Bianca’s wedding, so he wanted to start work on the closest spare room to ours for a nursery.

I felt ill. The test date flashed in my mind, but how could I bring up the classes when we were destined to rehash a very old argument about the nursery? “Fine. I guess I’ll ask Rumple’s to send over some samples.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I lied. I tried to look cheerful, but I must have failed. “Maybe I’m just not excited about yet more gold-striped fabric. Grimm forbid they make anything in silver.”

“Let’s use the Brave Little Tailor instead. Goldi will find us some nice, boring colors to use.”

“Great. I can’t wait.”

He put his arm around my shoulder. “We don’t have to
have
a baby right now, CeCi, we just need to look like we could.”

“I know.” But I was lying again. I don’t understand. Why can’t we just tell the king and queen that we may never be ready to have a child?

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” he asked. “You seem so distracted.”

Edmund says that sometimes you have to fudge the truth in order to avoid hurting people. That’s what we’re doing to his parents. I suppose that’s what I’m doing by not telling him about the classes. I just have to find the right time, and that time is not now.

You told me a long time ago that you were loved too much when you grew up in the tower—kept too precious. And I get that. But after my mother died, I was so lonely. Every day I wished that something or someone would come and take me away from it all. I dreamed of being somewhere, someplace else—maybe even like Rory, asleep, safe, full, warm, loved. But most of all, I dreamed of being wanted.

I swore back then that I’d never cause a child to depend on love that I couldn’t guarantee. Life so often deals indelible losses through no fault of our own. I didn’t want to let a kid down or disappoint them or fail them, or leave them frightened and hopeless.

When I see children like we did at the Magic Castle, I remember all the things I felt at that age—all that raw, directionless emotion—and it’s terrifying. I recognize the resentment and confusion and all the boundless hoping and dreaming, when really, the future is nothing but a sparkling, pre-laid path to be painstakingly minded.

I can’t be the one to tell a child that her world hinges upon the imagination of Humans and that we barely influence our own destinies. And furthermore, restrict consumption of ice cream and cupcakes. I don’t know how you do it, Zell. Motherhood seems insurmountable.

I’m fortunate that Edmund doesn’t want to be a parent, either. He doesn’t want to dictate anyone’s life, forcing costume galas and riding lessons and hunting rifles onto hapless young things. But soon we’ll have to answer our subjects’ questions. If we don’t answer them honestly, won’t we borrow trouble down the road?

I think if we just explained ourselves, we could make people see we’re being responsible. There are lots of people who know they
do
want to be parents. Like Rory, who’s been trying to get pregnant since she woke up. I wish it would happen for her. Maybe the problem stems from an excess of sleep. Maybe it’s Henry. Maybe she’s trying too hard or not hard enough.

Come to think of it, maybe we can ask Figgy to help. It’s the least she can do. Whether or not you believe Bianca’s claim that Figgy’s addendum of Henry to Rory’s Pages wasn’t binding, Figgy owes Rory for saddling her with that idiot. I’ve had my quibbles with Figgy. (Rory and Bianca keep telling me that the birds she sent to help me prepare for Edmund’s ball were a lovely gesture. But
they
didn’t have to clean up all the bird shit afterward. And don’t even get me started on the starlings that attacked Darling and Sweetie at my wedding.)

But I’ll forgive and forget for Rory’s sake. We need some sort of potion, and Figgy knows how to make one.

Love,

CeCi

I
mportant Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

Onyx Manor

West Road, Grimmland

Z,

So, I’m sitting at Shambles with a couple of the dwarves and we’re reminiscing over old times in the cabin in the wood, arguing over who folded the best origami napkins and how Ben was constantly nailing “No Soliciting” placards onto the house for my benefit. CeCi stomps in looking purposeful. Max and Tripp finish their martinis and excuse themselves so they can head off to pick out a new end table at Three Bears Antiques.

CeCi barely registers their departure, sliding into a stool on the other side of me and brushing the peanut shells from the table. I pour her a cider from my pitcher and she drinks it down in two big gulps. She shovels a few pretzels into her mouth, drinks half of another glass, and lets go a rather large belch.

“Bianca,” she says. “You’ve taught me something.”

“Certainly not table manners.” I drop a pile of paper napkins in her lap. “But do tell.”

“It’s good to be proactive.”

“Okay,” I say, eyeing her cider. “How many of these did you have before you came over?”

“It’s good to be brave, Bianca. To keep moving.” She draws a line in the air with her palm. “I worked my whole childhood and, even though I was miserable, I knew my purpose. Now, I’m not miserable. Fine, I’m a little miserable. Because I have no purpose. Yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell anyone how much Cordon Bleu means to me.”

I am momentarily relieved that her behavior seems to be some crisis of gratitude. “It’s no big deal. You know, I wanted to explore Outside, anyway.”

“I’m serious, Bianca. Your being brave helps me be brave.”

“Seriously, stop it with the gushing or I’ll cut you off.” I slide the already empty pitcher of cider away from her.

“You know how I hate kids?”

“There we go,” I say, slapping the table. “That’s more like it.”

She gives me a shove. “You know what I’m saying, like how I don’t want kids?”

“Yes. I am acutely aware.”

“You know how Rory really wants kids?”

“Are we playing a game of Twenty Questions We Already Know the Answer To?”

She flaps her hands in frustration. “Come on, Bianca.”

“Then yes. I’d have to be deaf not to know both yours and Rory’s stance on child—”

“I can help. We can help.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how sex works, CeCi.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. We can go to Figgy.”

Neither of us is a big Figgy fan, so I am less than enthused. “How’s Figgy going to help?”

“Fertility potion,” she says, and sweeps the pretzel crumbs into a neat pile. “Figgy saddled Rory with Henry, so she should make things right.”

I grit my teeth. I’ve tried, for Rory’s sake, to drop the subject of her revised Pages. Seems to me Fred’s banishment more than paid for his mistake, so why did Rory need new Pages at all? She wakes up. The end. No need to intimidate the populace or perpetuate the importance of Fate. Message received: Don’t fuck with the Pages.

Figgy seems to have replaced one trial with another—Rory escaped death but now she has to deal with Henry—and you’ll never convince me that the change was real or binding. I’m sure it was the result of some quarrel between the Fairy Godmothers (who, incidentally, make me glad I don’t have any sisters).

CeCi derails my train of thought. “I know what you’re thinking, Bianca. But this time Figgy can give her some actual help.”

“You’re the one who hates Figgy with, and I quote, ‘the fire of one thousand suns.’”

She resumes tearing a paper napkin to bits. “We can take the high road for Rory’s sake, can’t we? When we go see Figgy, you have to tone it down a little, too.”

“If you’ll remember, Cecilia, Figgy dismissed us last time because you said if you ever saw one of her birds again you’d ‘put them on a rotisserie.’”

She throws the napkin pieces at me. “Well anyway, I’m sure that’s all blown over by now. Let’s keep it that way.”

I think about pressing her, but I decide I’d like to see what happens. “Figgy’s expensive,” I say. “Do you have enough worms?”

“I’ll get them.”

“How?”

“Tiaras.”

“Just gonna hawk ’em?”

“Why not?”

“Lucinda will have a thousand reasons why not,” I say.

She shrugs and shoves another handful of pretzels into her maw. “She promised not to meddle. Signed an agreement, even.”

I let the Lucinda issue drop, but I still can’t understand why she’s picked up Rory’s cause so fervently. “So you just woke up and decided that Rory needs to be knocked up?”

“Everyone’s attention is elsewhere.” Her mouth is still half full of pretzels. I have no idea why this brainstorm has obliterated her etiquette. “We’ve been wrapped up in subterfuge and getting Outside. Not to mention your wedding. Rory’s lost in the tumult. Maybe that’s why she got so upset with Maro. It’s time we made her a priority.”

I think Rory gave Maro a wine bath because Maro is a meddlesome bimbo who’s bound to cause trouble and, even though Rory doesn’t know that’s why she doesn’t like her,
that’s why she doesn’t like her
.

Regardless, we set a date to go see the big bird on Friday. As soon as we come to an agreement, CeCi stomps out as bafflingly as she stomped in. Everyone’s going nuts. There must be something in the water.

And speaking of nuts, I’m sure Jason will get used to the country, eventually. It sounded like a good idea to him when you moved, right? I’m assuming you did discuss it together at length like responsible adults before you decided to go, did you not?

Change is hard. He doesn’t have William or Edmund around to blow off steam with. I bet there isn’t a Shambles within stumbling distance. How long has it been since he’s shot magical arrows at something? You’ll have to give him some time. He’ll see the beauty in it someday, even if the dirt under his nails is looking ugly right now. And if he doesn’t come around to loving the place, he’ll at least be able to see how happy it makes you. I bet it makes you as happy as getting a letter from your estranged friend who moved to Oz! I got one, so I’m going to go celebrate.

Wish us luck at Figgy’s. We’ll almost certainly need it.

B