Bedknobs and beanstalks, p.10
Bedknobs and Beanstalks, page 10
"And would you go to Araby?” His father was friends with the current Caliph; for a moment he fantasized he might take her on a voyage. Properly chaperoned, of course. And why stop at Araby? They might sip mulled wine together on the Tartar steppes, or walk the jewel-strewn beaches of Ind. Alas, his lady had more exotic tastes.
"I would go to the moon,” she said in her husky, enthralling voice. Her large eyes shone through her mask with pleasure at the prospect. “On a chariot pulled by birds. The old philosophers said it was on the moon that birds nested."
"And if they were wrong, your philosophers?"
She shrugged, tossing her dark hair. “They must nest somewhere. I could test the theory, at least. And I'm certain the moon must be a very charming place. I see it all in marble, like an old Roman villa..."
There had been something about her, not merely her charming conversation, but something about her physically. Roland loved the beauty of women, yet to him something in them always seemed wanting. He found some of that quality in men, though male beauty also didn't satisfy completely. Zelynda embraced everything the prince longed for. She was nearly as tall as Roland himself, and she seemed so much more solid than the tsars’ and khans’ daughters all around them; were all women in the world built so, his father would not have had so long a wait for a royal wedding. Something about Zelynda's shoulders seemed to cry out for his embrace, to demand he hold her. And finally, he had—some chance bon mot had moved him to take her into his arms and kiss her.
Her perfume had intoxicated him; it was sweet and at the same time warm and earthy. It spoke to him of worlds beyond the palace, beyond even the magical and far-off places she so eloquently conjured with her conversation—something he had always longed for without knowing even what it was called. Roland breathed in her scent as they kissed, eyes shut to better enjoy this intoxication. When at last the kiss ended he found her smiling up at him, her own eyes shining with such pleasure that he had laughed like a child. No woman at court had ever smiled at him so.
Never in his life had Roland ever felt such desire for another human being. He wanted to kiss her again, to take her hand and run with her, to talk and laugh with her for hours. He wanted with enormous intensity to make love to her...
Then suddenly the bells in the palace chapel had rung midnight, and everything had shattered into shards and fragments. Roland remembered the stab of loss as Zelynda tore out of his arms, the sight of her running—with such surprising speed and grace—stumbling briefly, then running on.
He had found the slipper on the steps, still warm from her foot.
And so had begun his quest.
As a boy, he had devoured tales of knightly quests, undertaken by men pure of heart and motive for the sake of women of superhuman beauty and virtue. For Zelynda's sake, he vowed he would be such a man. His quest, though, had led not to duels and battles with monsters, but to sitting rooms and endless, mindless chatter.
"Come on.” He clapped Sir Jasper on the shoulder as they left the merchant's house. “Let's to the inn, and our beds. We have days and days of disappointment before us to relish."
Roland didn't relish the prospect at all, of course, but making a joke of it made him feel more the equal of the situation. He knew in this quest he had undertaken, laughter might succeed where the power of his crown and station meant nothing.
* * * *
Building fires was the one thing Ashes was good at. Or rather, it was the one thing he was good at that Stepmother acknowledged. The fancies that occasionally amused Bianca meant nothing to the old woman. On a more practical note, it was true Ashes could carry more trays of filthy crockery and scrub more yards of common-room floor than any of the scullery wenches, but the sight of him, Stepmother said, put the regulars off their ale.
Fire was different. Everyone else in the inn might struggle for an hour or more to make a proper fire, either in the big central hearth or the kitchen's ovens. Ashes had no such trouble. It was as though his fingers could call forth flames from the air itself; it required barely a single strike to bring sparks from the tinder, and then it was simply a matter of encouraging the blaze to step forth and show itself. Ashes loved the hearth; the sweetness of wood smoke and the music as the logs cracked and split. Even the ashes were dear to him, but mostly he loved the fire itself. He leaned back before the hearth now as he had on countless nights before, watching the blaze he had made, seeing wonderful things in its shifting colors and hot light.
I made another fire like this only a week ago, he thought, picking up a twig from the heart and bending it, until it snapped in two. A fire in a man's heart.
That blaze, a voice said, has not yet died.
Ashes started and leaned forward until he risked his hair catching fire. “Godmother?” he whispered.
He thought he could see her in the flames, the red and white tongues suggesting a mane of red hair, framing a face of regal beauty. The face shifted and turned endlessly in the fire, now staring him frankly in the eyes, now showing him a haughty profile. Ashes could not remember ever having had a godmother; certainly his father had never mentioned one to him before he died. But that was how this magnificent woman had introduced herself to him on that night a week before. He could not doubt her any more than he could doubt the sun was warm or that spring would follow winter.
"Godmother!” Ashes cried, bracing himself on the hot hearthstones. “Godmother, I failed you! I should have listened to you and left before midnight..."
You didn't fail, child, not entirely. You have great beauty, as I told you once, and a wit even greater. The prince loves you, and will not rest until he holds you again. Even now he comes for you.
"But I can't receive him like this! He'll know...what I am."
You speak to me of reality? Perhaps you had better go back to your dolls and ash-bucket.
"Please, no. It's only...I'm frightened."
As you should be. To accept love is to take a great risk, far greater than one of your years can appreciate.
"Yes, Godmother..."
Listen to me, Ashes: those tricks I played with mice and pumpkins were nothing compared to what you face now. I can lend you a little more magic, but the outcome of it is up to you.
There are those here who will oppose you. They are not entirely cruel or evil people, but they have their own dreams before them and care nothing for yours. Remember, Ashes. Be judicious. Use your wits. Your beauty has empires talking, but it's your wit that's captured the prince's heart.
"Yes, Godmother."
"Who are you talking to?"
Ashes started and turned to confront the always fearsome spectacle of his stepmother glowering in the common room's doorway.
"No one."
"So I see. The fire's built, I can see that as well. I'll have one of the kitchen girls tend it. You can go back to your room."
Ashes bit his lip. “Can't I stay and see the prince?” He hated the childish way his voice trembled.
"No. We have important visitors tonight, and I don't need you swooning about in your ridiculous outfit. Go on,” she said, somewhat less harshly. “Bianca will bring you a cup of chocolate tomorrow morning and tell you all about it."
"Yes, Stepmother.” Ashes wanted to beg or rage, but he forced himself to be silent. He knew this was part of what Godmother meant by using his wits.
Hanging his head, he padded past Stepmother to his cramped little room. He knew Stepmother would be close behind him. He knew the span between his door closing and the click of her key turning in the lock could be measured in seconds.
The tattered shoes Bianca had given him sat side by side on the floor next to his bed. They tore readily into scraps of leather and he slipped one of these easily between the doorjamb and the closing door, ensuring the lock would not catch. The hallway was dark and if Stepmother suspected she had been played a trick, she gave no sign of it.
Ashes lit a candle and sat down to pray and wait. He wished he could catch a comforting glimpse of Godmother in the tiny flame, but no matter how he squinted and stared, she didn't reveal herself. Ambrose was restless in his cage, turning round and round and squeaking shrilly.
"What's wrong with you?” Ashes scolded, turning the glow of the candle on the rat. The flame seemed to gutter, then flared so brightly in Ashes's hand that he almost dropped it as the room was lit bright as noontime in its crackling light. Then he noticed how much larger Ambrose looked and how much larger he was becoming moment by moment. As though his head weren't already brushing the top of the cage, he sat up on his haunches, rearing upright, his tiny eyes blinking in confusion. Almost as though he were trying to stand up like a man.
I can lend you a little more magic, Godmother had said.
"Oh!” Ashes hurried to let his pet out of his cage before he grew too large for it and was injured.
* * * *
The tall one was Verity, apparently. She was somewhat ill-favored physically, if reasonably intelligent and witty. Her younger sister was...Bianca, that was it; plump and vivacious, with a slightly—not displeasingly—acid bite to her personality. Either might have done well at court, but neither of the pair was Zelynda.
Roland had tried to forestall the audience until the next morning, pleading exhaustion, but the mother was as insistent an old dragon as any other parent they had encountered. The girls were awake anyway, she said, having just returned from an evening salon held by one of their friends. Would his majesty not care to meet them? Since the royal decree clearly stated that every maiden in the kingdom was to try the slipper...why not let them try it now? That way his highness would not be inconvenienced in the morning, both girls being such late risers.
Sir Jasper made no attempt to hide his exhaustion or irritation, but he managed to get the slipper onto Bianca's foot. He even managed not to snap at the mother as she hovered over him.
Bianca stared down at the gleaming crystal hanging precariously on her small foot. “I didn't realize it was so big. Honestly, it's the biggest slipper I've ever seen. Almost as if it had been made for a..."
"For me!” the taller sister snapped. “It's just my size, I'm sure of it.” Her impatience had been palpable since Roland and his men had entered the inn, but once she had actually seen the slipper, she had practically begun salivating. “Come on, Bianca, you've had your turn. Let me try."
"Let her, Jasper. Never mind reading the proclamation.” Roland managed to keep his voice courteous, but he was more than ready to end this.
Pouting, Bianca was hustled off, her seat claimed by the triumphant Verity. The girl's own shoe was scarcely off before she thrust her foot into the crystal slipper. She turned her ankle, grinning in ugly triumph. Bianca squealed and hopped repeatedly up and down. The mother laughed delightedly, not so much clapping her hands as striking them together in a gesture of vindication and violent pleasure.
Roland blinked bleary eyes. It wasn't possible. It wasn't. But for a moment, he felt with a horrible certainty that his fate was sealed. He would be forced by his own word to marry this awful creature and wake up every morning to that grinning, spiteful face.
Sir Jasper cleared his throat. “It doesn't quite fit, Majesty."
The girl turned on the knight like a viper. “What are you on about? It does fit! Look, you see? Look at it! It's the right size exactly!"
"How wonderful!” The mother was already bustling in, laying proprietary hands on Verity's shoulders. “You see, I knew from the start this girl had something special. Some certain elegance, some innate..."
"It does...seem to fit.” Roland employed all the diplomacy expected of a king's son. “But Madame, your daughter is not the girl I seek. She looks nothing like the Lady Zelynda."
"Begging your majesty's pardon...” The mother's smile was oily and wholly unpleasant. “It was a masked ball, yes?"
"That's right!” Verity's eyes were ablaze with a not-quite-healthy fervor. “You can't prove I'm not your precious Zelynda! She was masked, like everyone else."
"The point,” the mother went on quickly, “is the slipper fits..."
"Nearly fit,” Sir Jasper said stolidly.
"Oh, rubbish,” the woman snorted. “Nearly or completely, who is this man to say? The royal proclamation made no mention of other considerations of identity. I am certain your majesty intends to do the right thing..."
Bianca screamed suddenly, lifting her skirts. A tiny dark shadow darted across the floor between her feet, seeming to make for the hearth. Verity screamed as well and the little thing veered, apparently confused, back in the direction it had come. But a moment later there was another, then a third, until the floor was swarming.
Sir Jasper stared in bewilderment at the little creatures. “Mice..."
"Your majesty,” the mother said, her face aghast. “I can assure you, this is a clean establishment...we don't have mice!"
"Well, Madame, you most certainly do tonight.” Roland laughed.
"They're behaving oddly,” Sir Jasper said. “Why do they stay out in the light like that? Surely they should be seeking a place of hiding."
"There, there, now,” a new voice said behind them, rough and good humored. “There, my beauties, don't take on so."
A small man entered the room as if from nowhere. He was an ugly, bandy-legged fellow with protruding yellow teeth, his hair in a long black queue that hung between his shoulders looking for all the world like a rat's tail. Despite that, his uniform was as fine as those worn by Roland's own men, and his eyes sparkled with cheer. Even more inexplicably, he carried a large pumpkin under one arm.
"Your pardon, gentles.” He set the pumpkin on the floor, then removed his hat for a moment and made them a sweeping bow. Pushing a hand into his pocket for a moment, he brought out a mouse nestled in the palm. “My team has gotten away from me, you see. It's a bit of a job collecting the little buggers...begging your pardon again."
"Who are you?” the mother snapped, all iron and ice. “How did you and those filthy animals get in here? This is royal business, and..."
"Me? I'm no one at all, mum, leastwise, not on my own. It's merely my honor and privilege to serve the Lady Zelynda in the humble office of coachman..."
"Lady Zelynda?” Roland felt his heart seize with fresh hope. “You know her?"
"Oh yes, sir. She's on her way now, you see. Just getting herself ready. You know the womenfolk, sir. Why take an hour making themselves beautiful when they can take an hour and a day?"
"But I'm the Lady Belynda...or Melynda, or whatever you said!” Verity snarled.
The self-styled coachman looked her up and down, stroking the mouse in his hand with one finger. “Begging your pardon, miss. You are not."
"This is not right,” the mother said, teeth gritted. “If your mistress is the one the prince seeks, why did she wait till now to show herself?"
"She was delayed, you see,” the coachman said. “A regrettable but unavoidable matter. You know how the roads are these days, mum.” Suddenly he removed his hat and gestured with a flourish to the room's far corner. “And here she is now! You must never underestimate timing in these matters,” he added, winking. “So my old mother used to say, bless her heart."
All heads turned to stare at the tall, dark figure standing in the narrow doorway that, until now, had seemed invisible in the room's shadows.
"Good evening, Highness,” said a soft, husky voice. The figure dropped into a curtsey of sorts. He had bare feet and wore a tattered slip, his hair hanging around his face.
"Oh, you foolish boy,” the mother moaned. “What are you playing at? I told you to stay in your room!"
The boy's voice was gentle but firm. “I'm sorry, Stepmother. But I'm the one the prince seeks."
You are. Are you? Roland stood silently and his eyes roamed over the boy, taking in the full effect.
"You? The Lady Zelynda? What utter nonsense!” The mother twisted her head from the prince to his servant with a strange pleading look. “Please forgive him, Majesty. This is my deceased husband's son. He's mad and has fits of thinking he's a girl.” Turning back to Ashes, she snapped, “You're not this Lady Zelynda! There is no such person!"
"You're right, Stepmother. There is no Lady Zelynda. I'm not her any more than Verity is. I'm only Ashes.” He stepped up to Roland, gaze locked on his. He smiled slightly. “But I know where the Phoenix nests."
"Majesty?” Sir Jasper's voice seemed leagues away to Roland. “Majesty, this is highly irregular."
Roland made no reply. His world had collapsed, narrowing until its sole inhabitant was this ragged, long-haired boy. Are you? Yes. Yes, I think you are.
"Let him try the slipper,” Roland said finally.
The room rang with protests from the mother and her two daughters, but a direct royal order was not to be denied. Sir Jasper gently guided Ashes to the stool lately occupied by his stepsister and carefully eased the slipper onto his long foot.
"The fit,” he said and nodded, “is perfect."
The prince smiled as he took Ashes's hand. “This is her. I would know her anywhere, whatever shape she wears.” The prince's voice was firm and warm, and as certain as a stone wall.
"I should have known you would recognize me.” Tears glinted in Ashes's eyes, but he smiled.
"You didn't doubt me?” Roland asked
Ashes shook his head. “Never you. Myself, rather. It was foolish of me, but I've had help and love, and I'll doubt no more. I love you.” His voice echoed the prince's certainty. “I love you, Prince Roland."
"And I you, Lady Zelynda."
"But he's not a Lady!” Verity cried. “He's a he...ohh! Mother!"
"Your Majesty, be reasonable. I don't...here! What are you doing?” The mother stared down in ferocious indignation at Sir Jasper, who had interposed himself between her and the couple.
"The slipper fit the foot,” Sir Jasper said firmly. “The prince's search is at an end. Any questions of the young lady's...identity...are purely between herself and his highness."
The mother seemed likely to explode. “Are you mad? The prince marrying a boy? A boy in a dress? There will be a scandal. The church will never sanction such an unholy union. The crown..."
