While Beauty Slept (52 page)

A love strong enough to beat back death.

EPILOGUE

D
oes Raimy believe me? I have watched my great-granddaughter’s eyes widen in both wonder and dismay as I recount my story. But she may think it no more than another fairy tale, the embellished ramblings of a dotty old woman.

I tell her that Rose and Joffrey lived happily ever after. And they did, or near enough. For can a young woman who has seen her family home turned into a tomb ever be truly happy? Blessed though she may be with wealth and honor, she will forever suspect that death lurks in the shadows. On those first nights away from the castle, which we passed in the home of an elderly kinswoman of Prince Owin, Rose would burst from sleep with screams, tormented by the same nightmares that stalked my own rest. I held her tightly, fearing that her poor, weakened body would give way under the onslaught of such sobs. Joffrey, too, was watchful and tender. He tried to tempt her appetite at table each evening, and I saw him gently trace a finger along her cheek and whisper endearments when he thought them unobserved.

Prielle rose to her new role as if born to it, relishing each curtsy and bow directed her way. If she was occasionally unsure on a matter of precedence or etiquette, her hesitation was seen as an effect of her illness, not cause for suspicion. And Prielle was a quick study. Whether or not she set her sights on Prince Owin from the start, an understanding had soon formed between them, and I knew he would ask for her hand. For a young prince enamored of dramatic gestures, it would be the ultimate rescue.

Prielle and Rose were to be granted a fresh start, but for me the journey to Hirathion brought nothing but dread. I would be living among strangers, a knight’s widow who would be looked down on by ladies of noble rank. Rose had need of me now, but for how long? She would have a loving husband and, God willing, children. She could begin a new life. I could not. I had no heart for it.

After all I had lost, all I had seen, I longed for a home of my own. A place I would be welcome as I was. Much as I loved Rose, I yearned for Marcus.

I berated myself for harboring such thoughts, based on little more than a few moments spent in his presence. His wife could have survived the pox, in which case I had no claim to him. Even if he were a widower, he might not wish to wed again. But I had felt something spark between us on that day in his garden. And that feeling was enough to fuel my resolve. For too long my fate had been in the hands of others. This time I vowed to make my own way.

I wrote Marcus a letter. How I agonized over those lines! Surely no poet ever measured his words as carefully. I asked after his family, adding in an offhand manner that perhaps I could visit at some time in the future. In all it was a respectable effort, sociable but not overly familiar. I only hoped he would divine the wishes entwined among the polite sentiments.

The same messenger who took my letter at first light returned with a reply by dusk. Marcus was indeed mourning the loss of his wife, who had died at the home of her sister. The pox appeared to have run its course in St. Elsip, and a few ships had even brought supplies to the harbor. All this was heartening news, but not as much as the letter’s final line:

“You are most welcome to visit at the earliest opportunity.”
Followed by a scribble added in haste at the edge of the page:
“Please come.”

Had I the soul of a poet, I would tell Raimy that Marcus swept me into his arms as I swore undying love. In truth we were cautious when we met again and all too aware of the children’s eyes upon us. I was a woman of thirty-two, not a headstrong girl, and we spoke as long-parted acquaintances, exchanging news in measured tones, careful that our voices not carry the weight of our expectations. Afraid to speak our hopes aloud.

It was only in darkness that we revealed the truth of our feelings, in actions more than words. After the children had been sent to bed, we sat before the dying embers of the fire. He reached for my hand and I for his. His lips brushed against my cheek, my hands along his shoulders. We explored the shape of each other cautiously, the curves and warm skin familiar and yet not, for we were older and time had changed us both. It was during those moonlit hours that we became pledged to each other once again, whispering endearments as his hands cupped my cheeks. My love for him, I was delighted to discover, was like those crackling embers: Time and distance had dampened its heat, but the gentle coaxing of Marcus’s tender kisses brought it roaring back to life.

I stayed two days. Enough to know that Marcus’s home would one day be my own, that the bond between us was strong enough to build a future on. Though we had waited so long to live as one, our vows were delayed still further, for Marcus had to observe the mourning period for his wife, and I refused to leave Rose and Prielle until I had seen them settled.

Rose’s wedding was a modest affair, but it was suffused with a joy that larger ceremonies often lack. Joffrey watched his new bride with delight throughout the celebratory dinner, marveling that such a creature could be his. She in turn seemed to drink in her husband’s admiration as if it were an elixir, charming everyone from the courtiers to the servants with her bright smile and witty conversation. Though Joffrey called her Prielle in public and furthered the story that she was a cloth merchant’s daughter, he addressed her in private as Beauty, and I knew that their shared secret would forever bind them together.

On the morning of the wedding, I carried out my final duty to Queen Lenore, presenting Rose with the necklace of golden flowers her mother had entrusted to me when she saw her daughter for the last time. Rose caressed the fragile blooms lovingly, tracing the same ridges that her mother’s fingers had once followed. Then she gathered the strands together, slipped the necklace back into its velvet bag, and pressed it into my hands.

“You will be married soon yourself, Elise. This is my gift to you.”

I said I could not possibly accept, but Rose quickly silenced me. “I know you have always admired it. She would want you to have it, in gratitude for all you have done.”

She silenced my further protests by reminding me that such a piece was far too extravagant for a merchant’s daughter. “I could never wear it without raising questions,” she said. “You are a knight’s wife. It should go to you.”

And so I wore jewelry fit for a queen at the wedding of Prince Owin, which was celebrated in suitably lavish fashion. Prielle carried herself regally through it all, noble in poise yet gracious in her manner. Hailed as Princess Rose, she displayed a genuine affection for her new husband that boded well for their future partnership. But their marriage marked not only the coming together of a man and woman. With those vows Rose’s kingdom and Owin’s were joined together, and King Ranolf’s line came to an end. His castle, seat of a realm that no longer existed, was left to crumble.

Rose sobbed on the day I left her, as did I. But, to her credit, she never begged me to stay. Given her taste for romantic tales, she would not deny me a second chance with the man she dubbed my true love. Prince Owin had granted Joffrey a title and an estate upon his marriage, in recognition of his loyal service, and Rose and her husband would be moving to a manor house at the foot of the Trillian Mountains, overlooking the sea. Rose told me the sight of the water calmed her spirit, and I remembered her furtive outings to St. Elsip’s harbor, when she had stared longingly at the open water. I suppose it was a touch of her mother’s blood, for Queen Lenore came from a seafaring people.

Our parting was filled with vows of friendship and exclamations of devotion, though I feared that our differing circumstances would ultimately form a barrier between us. Rose’s home became renowned for its elegant taste, the liveliness of its entertainments, and the culture of its mistress, with poets, musicians, and artists welcomed as honored guests. But I did not share in such diversions. As Rose supervised the hanging of tapestries and the placement of furniture, I was back on the outskirts of St. Elsip, plunged into a new life. Sleeping and waking with a husband who was both business partner and lover, old friend and new acquaintance, caring for children who were not mine by blood yet mine to raise. I was not accustomed to running a household; indeed I knew little of cooking and nothing of tanning. Yet I did what needed doing to hold my makeshift family together.

I visited Rose when I could, and I am glad to say I was at her side during the birth of her first child. To me alone she confided the visions that haunted her still, the tears that came unbidden and were beyond her power to stop. I did what I could to ease her pain. But Rose’s home was a journey of some days from mine. When I in turn was blessed with a child, my darling Merissa, it became even harder to pull myself away. That is the way of it when friends are parted for too long, no matter what the affection between them. Bonds stretched over too far a distance cannot help but weaken with time.

When Rose had asked me if my marriage to Dorian was a happy one, I had not known how to respond. With Marcus the answer was clear. Some days, ground down by Merissa’s cries or Evaline’s spiteful tongue, I lost myself in bitterness and thought on the life I might have had with Rose. But the feel of Marcus’s arms around my shoulders restored my balance, and his joy in our chaotic, cobbled-together family inspired me to give thanks for my many blessings. I even cried to see Evaline married. Never would I have imagined that it would be her grandchild, Raimy, who would prove the greatest joy of my final years.

As for Rose, she brought three beautiful children into the world, two boys and a girl. I always think of the youngest with a pang, for it was she who took Rose’s life. It was a difficult birth, undertaken in Rose’s fortieth year, when she thought herself past childbearing. She greeted her daughter with happy tears, I was told, before succumbing to the bleeding that has taken so many a mother. Sir Joffrey was kind enough to send me a letter in his own hand, though it did little to assuage my grief.

St. Elsip never fully recovered from the pox’s onslaught, though houses that were abandoned for years are slowly welcoming new inhabitants and we hear whispers that an ambitious nobleman wishes to take up residence in the still-imposing castle. The time will soon come when none remember the pox. The shadow that hung over the stone tower will lift, and the building will once again host tournaments and feasts.

Raimy certainly wishes it so. If the castle springs back to life, she will find a place there, I am sure of it. Courts are always open to young women of charm and beauty.

As for myself, I have no desire to walk those halls ever again. In my waning years, I am content to sit before a warm fire with a full stomach. Though the aches in my legs and teeth grow more grievous with age, the pain of the past has subsided. I can think of Queen Lenore and Rose as they were, strolling in the garden, sunlight burnishing Rose’s auburn hair and making her mother’s dark eyes sparkle. I can remember their laughter, and the smell of leaves and petals I crushed between my fingers. I can remember myself behind them, content to play a supporting role in their story.

Once I chose to hide the keepsakes of my previous life rather than acknowledge all I had lost. Now I find comfort in such memories. The leather bracelet Marcus crafted for me so long ago, when we were little more than children, is once more wrapped about my wrist, a testament to a love that endured past youthful infatuation. Queen Lenore’s golden necklace would look foolish adorning my scraggly neck, but I often sit with it laid out in my lap, admiring the delicate workmanship, recalling the nights when I gently pulled aside the queen’s dark hair to fasten the clasp.

I am soothed by the thought that Sleeping Beauty’s story will live on beyond us all, a tale of evil defeated and love triumphant that will resonate through the ages. And that is as it should be. For the truth is no fairy tale.

Acknowledgments

Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but the right support system can make all the difference in the years between first draft and publication. Since the early days of this project, I have kept a mental acknowledgments list of all the family and friends who encouraged me along the way. Now I can finally make it official.

First, I would like to thank my parents, Mike and Judy Canning, and my sister, Rachel, for being my first and most loyal cheerleaders. You kept my spirits up when the going got toughest, and I feel incredibly lucky to have grown up with such an amazing family. An extra shout-out to Rachel for her ability to make me laugh until I can barely breathe.

To my husband, Bob, thank you for stepping up to keep the Blackwell household running whenever I got into “crazy writing” mode. I could not have done this without you. (Extra bonus points for regularly fixing breakfast for three children so I could sleep in after a late night of writing—the greatest gift a night-owl mother can get.) A special thanks to my daughter, Clara, whose many viewings of Disney’s
Sleeping Beauty
led to the inspiration for this book.