Briar and Rose and Jack Page 2

  The king’s summons comes. Hilde prods Lady Beatrice to wrap baby Rose securely in her blanket and sends her out into the great hall. Then, stabbed by a sudden fear of her own ineptness, she feels that she must practice her magic trick one more time. She has rehearsed it at length, but it seldom goes the same way twice. Hastily she looks about her and chooses two objects on opposite sides of the room, a carved box and a pitcher. With a muttered incantation and a deft movement of her hand, she calls upon the power of all the saints to switch the objects. Both objects vanish into thin air, leaving a slight smell of smoke. “God’s thumb!” she mutters. Beginning to question her ability to pull this trick off, she shakes her hand as if to loosen its powers and tries again.

  Something goes awry. The objects are back, but each has taken on some characteristics of the other. The pitcher has square corners now, and the box has a spout!

  This has never happened before. What if the baby princesses are affected in this way? She has never tried this trick with actual people, only with dogs and cats. What if they were stuck so, half of one princess and half the other? She quickly decides that it would not be so bad. Making a determined effort, she closes her eyes and draws inward to a still, quiet place within herself. Casting the spell again, she manages to return both objects to their original states and to switch their places as she had intended. As she stands wondering what she did differently this time, she listens closely to the goings-on out in the great hall. The gift-giving has started! She hears a fairy’s tinkling voice reciting an insipid little poem, as they always do when presenting their gifts. Quickly now! She must switch the babies! Standing over little Briar, she rolls up her sleeves and pronounces the spell along with making the hand movements.

  Nothing happens. Hilde can hear the fairy out in the great hall saying, “I bestow the gift of beauty!”

  “No!” Hilde cries. That was the gift she most wished to secure for little Briar, and now it is too late! “Why is that always the first gift?” she moans, banging her head against the wall. “Baby Rose is already beautiful! What a waste! What a waste!” Lost in bitter regret, she has developed a sizable lump on her forehead, but then she remembers herself. Now another fairy’s voice can be heard in the hall. Quickly Hilde casts the switching spell again, watching the baby anxiously for the result, but again, there is none. Now she can hear the second fairy bestow the gift of riches on baby Rose. Another gift lost!

  Hilde resists the urge to bang her head again. She tries the spell once more, adding an elaborate motion, this time with both hands. Nothing. Frantically, she goes to the door to see what is happening without. There is vicious jostling among the group of fairies, for they are excitable creatures and sometimes waspish, and each is anxious to give the best gift. Finally, a determined fairy clad in pink elbows her way to the fore, spitting savage epithets. She bends over the royal cradle, wand in hand, rhyming trite nonsense in perfect meter while mayhem goes on behind her. “I give you sweetness!” she finally cries with a flourish of her wand, but one of the other fairies jolts her arm, and she drops the wand. Gasps are heard all around, and she gives the offending fairy a kick. Everyone watches as sparks spurt out of the end of the wand, then sputter and die, and the wand turns a cold gray color, like ash. The pink fairy picks up her wand and waves it at the baby again for good measure, but the tip falls off, and she storms away.

  “Bah! Sweetness!” mutters Hilde. “She’s better off without it!”

  Gratified that at least she did not secure the gift of sweetness for Briar, she calms herself, closes her eyes, and draws herself inward, performing the spell yet again. This time, when she opens her eyes, there is baby Rose, exactly where Briar had been a moment before. Restraining her glee, Hilde hastily goes to the door and flicks her wrist, casting a spell of confusion over the gilded cradle in the hall. Of all the spells, confusion is the easiest to cast, and she knows from experience that a little confusion is all it will require for people to see whatever they expect to see. She feels a surge of excitement as the fourth fairy winds up her mawkish poem with a giving of the gift of wit. Wit! A lovely gift! A perfect gift! Trembling with excitement now, Hilde waits to see what will happen.

  One by one, the fairies come to the cradle and recite their little poems, always ending with a gift. The fifth fairy, an ethereal sprite dressed all in green, curtsies to the king and queen and approaches the cradle.

  “She’ll move with beauty, like the swan

  With elegance and grace, anon.

  Light of foot and born to dance,

  All who see, she will entrance.”

  Hilde growls her disapproval and whispers bitterly to herself, “Dance! When will she ever get to dance? Still, every gift is a boon. One mustn’t be hasty.”

  The sixth fairy, clothed in white sparkles, says in a high soprano voice,

  “I give the music of the spheres;

  May heavenly harmony fill her ears,

  Inspiring her voice to lovely song,

  And giving her pleasure all life long.”

  “Very well. Very well,” Hilde mutters. “Give something of practical use!”

  A regular melee breaks out among the fairies, with several turning the others into various farm animals, but such is their power that no one dares chastise them. Some revert to their hummingbird size and harry one another with their buzzing and their needle-thin wands. One flies over the others, making her way to the fore, saying, “Me! I’m next!” She changes to human size, swatting the tiny ones away. Altering her demeanor to one of grave dignity, she proceeds to give the princess the gift of strength. Hilde is gratified. This is not a gift she had anticipated, but it could come in handy. She mentally counts the number of fairies who have given their gifts and counts how many are left. Three gave their gifts to baby Rose: beauty, riches, and perhaps sweetness—only time will tell. Four have given gifts to Briar: wit, dancing, song, and strength. One more remains. Anxiously, Hilde argues with herself as to when to switch the babies back. To be fair, she should let Rose have the last gift; then they would each have four. But what is fair about the hand Briar has been dealt? Rose has already been made the heir and will inherit the entire kingdom. Hilde thinks she will see that Briar gets everything she can.

  As she ponders this, there is a lightning strike and the earsplitting boom of thunder in the hall. People are screaming and stampeding, and there is the sound of furniture crashing to the floor. Hilde peers cautiously out the doorway and beholds another fairy. She is dressed in dark, muddy gray and has a face full of iniquity. Hilde knows immediately who she is: the other one, the ninth fairy, the one who was left out. She notices a fluttering below the dark fairy’s sleeves and, looking closer, sees that the fairy has tied together the feet of small sparrows and hung them upside down from her wrists to flap and worry themselves to death. The fairy wears them like jewelry. She steps toward the cradle and looks down on the baby princess with an expression of overflowing malice. Quickly, Hilde makes a choice. She will switch the babies back and keep Briar safe. She is about to try when another possibility occurs to her. If she can make the two babies disappear, as she did the bowl and the pitcher, and do it at the crucial moment, she may be able to save them both from the dark fairy’s wrath. She racks her brain. Exactly what were her words, and what order did she say them in? And her hands, did she use one or two?

  Out in the hall, the evil one spews her contempt on the king and queen, who have jumped to their feet. She freezes them in their places. Everyone else is held in thrall by their fear of her. “So you hate me, do you?” she cries. “Why else would you exclude me when you’ve invited everyone of any importance whatsoever? Why else would you spurn me when you’ve invited every other fairy in the kingdom—gold, red, purple, yellow, blue, pink, white, green—to come and give their gifts to this mewling infant? But you don’t want mine?

  “Well . . . I can be generous too. I’ll give my gift anyway! I’ll return hate with more hate! I’ll make sure you will feel my hatred for the res
t of your lives. I have only to take away that which you love most. I’ll stretch it out, so you’ll know every day as she grows that you will lose her, lose her just as she comes into full flower!”

  “No! Please!” begs the queen. “Not the princess! She’s innocent!”

  “I care not for her innocence! She is merely the means to an end—my revenge upon you all!”

  Standing in the doorway of the little room, Hilde has made herself ready. She listens for the exact moment to act.

  “On the princess’s sixteenth birthday—”

  Hilde pronounces her spell.

  “—she will prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel—”

  Hilde makes the motions with her trembling hands as well as she can.

  “—and die!”

  There is a soft pop. Hilde looks down and beholds a baby with porcelain skin and lips as red as cherries—and a heavy brow and a sagging eyelid. Which baby is it? And which baby has been cursed? Briar or Rose? Both? Neither? She hears the insane laughter of the gray fairy as the entire assembly screams in horror at her pronouncement. Hilde looks out into the hall just in time to see the fairy vanish in a miasma of sickly yellow smoke. Frantic now to switch the babies back to themselves, she is about to pronounce the magic words when Lady Beatrice comes barreling in the door, throwing herself on Hilde and crying hysterically. Hilde puts her arm around Beatrice and comforts her, holding the young woman’s head down on her shoulder so that she can’t see what’s in the cradle as Hilde quickly casts the confusion spell over it. She forces herself to pat Lady Beatrice’s back, telling her that the worst is over and urging her to collect her wits and return to her post.

  Meanwhile, out in the hall, the pink fairy shouts out, “Bertana! Bertana has not given her gift yet! Maybe she can help!” and the last few fairies begin rounding up the frightened farm animals, turning them back into fairies, searching for Bertana. Finally, a donkey is turned back into an elderly fairy dressed in gold. Standing erect, she smooths white wisps of hair that have come loose from her tidy bun. Her dignity has been severely wounded, but she steps forward and offers herself to the distraught king and queen.

  “Your Majesties, my power is not equal to that of the gray fairy, but perhaps I can soften her spell.” She goes to the cradle and pauses a moment, aware that this is the supreme challenge, the apogee of her career, the moment she has been building toward for all her two hundred years. She paces back and forth and whispers, “Hmm. Ahh. Yes.”

  Hilde drags Lady Beatrice to the door, desperate to know what is going on without, and sees the gold fairy approach the gilded cradle. Is there another gift to be given? Is there hope, then? She covers Lady Beatrice’s mouth tightly with one hand. “Shh!” she hisses, and startled, the girl stops her noise. Hilde hears the strong chanting of the gold fairy, condemning hatred, defying death with the quiet power of love, and softening the curse with a promise of peaceful slumber, to be awakened by true love’s kiss. It brings tears to Hilde’s eyes, and she prays that whichever princess was touched by the curse, this gift will touch her too. Only a moment does she ponder these things, and then she sees the face of the gold fairy looking down at the baby in the gilded cradle with shock and puzzlement. The fairy must be seeing glimpses of the baby’s mixed-up face! The confusion spell is fading! She must switch the babies back immediately, before the gold fairy sees too clearly.

  Fighting panic, Hilde shoves Lady Beatrice out the door and leans back against the wall. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to close her eyes and search for that inner stillness, the way she did before. That must be the key. Fear threatens to overcome her until, with an effort requiring all the strength and wisdom she can summon, calm at last wins out. She exhales slowly, casts the spell, and opens her eyes. There is no baby in the cradle. Where is she? Are they both gone? She looks out at the fairy’s face and sees her shake her head, as if seeing double. Agonizing moments pass, and then, with a little pop, Briar appears in the cradle in front of Hilde, completely herself, and Hilde sees the gold fairy bend over the gilded cradle in the hall, crooning affectionate nonsense to little Rose.

  The king and queen rush to the cradle’s side, and the queen grasps baby Rose to her, as if by holding her close she can undo what has been done. She turns to King Warrick. “The child can’t grow up with everyone telling her she’s been cursed. Do something!” The king looks about the great hall, and he signals the buglers to call for attention. Soon every eye in the room is upon him.

  “This day,” he announces, “a terrible conjuration has come upon us. I proclaim that every spinning wheel in the kingdom shall be burned! Furthermore, the princess Rose shall remain innocent and unaware of this curse until after her sixteenth birthday. Therefore I pronounce that on pain of death, no word shall be spoken, sung, or written concerning the gray fairy’s curse. It must be as if it never happened. All of you who have witnessed this day, mark my words well. Remember! On pain of death!”

  All around the hall, people look at one another with raised eyebrows—and closed mouths. But such is their sympathy for the poor wee baby that the king’s proclamation is unnecessary. No one present would add to the harm done to the child for the world.

  Hilde, meanwhile, who has held herself in limbo, feels the blood rushing in her veins again with relief. She picks up baby Briar and embraces her lovingly, the sleepy little one seemingly unaffected by what has taken place. Still trembling, Hilde contemplates the future with a mixture of hope and dread unequaled by anyone present, for none knows how she has tempted and cheated the fates this day. Only time will tell whether her machinations were for good or for ill. She pats baby Briar’s back and softly croons a little lullaby.

  PART ONE

  NINE YEARS LATER

   Chapter One

  IT IS A HOT SUMMER MORNING in the kingdom of Wildwick. In the distance, the sun hovers over the cloud-covered mountain. Sunlight shimmers in the hazy air, kisses the sleepy earth, and sparkles on the surface of the castle moat. Even the stony walls of the stronghold grow warm in the sultry dawn. Yet despite the glowing sun and pastoral setting, the years have not been kind to the little kingdom. The village outside the castle walls has grown shabby. The villagers themselves wearily tend the fields; the crops are plentiful, but there is not much to eat. The village baker has barely enough flour to make his bread.

  Why should this be, one wonders, when their crops are so abundant? It is because of this: every year at harvest time, for many years now, a greedy giant has come stomping down from the cloud-covered mountain, demanding gold and cattle and most of their crops. Then, with one blow of his mighty cudgel, he knocks a hole in the castle wall just to show that he can. What can King Warrick do? His counselors compel him to go forth and negotiate with the great bully. So he tries, with his voice as steady as he can make it, to remind the giant that if the villagers all starve, there will be no one to raise the crops. But the giant is immune to logic, and the king always ends by giving up more of his kingdom’s wealth and harvests, looking on as the giant stomps away with his plunder, back to the cloud-topped mountain. When it is over, the people are left destitute, some injured, even some dead. The castle, really a fortress, is left defenseless, its wall ruptured. By order of the king, all the able-bodied men gather at the broken wall and painstakingly rebuild it while the king levies the Giant Tax to replenish the treasury. Then he sells off more land to the filthy goblins, who pay him in gold from their underground lairs. This is a terrible choice, as goblins despoil any land they inhabit as well as everything for miles around. But despite the kingdom’s poverty, the king makes sure that he and his nobles still have the best of everything for themselves, and he keeps his own secret cache of food and treasure. The poor peasants, ignorant of the king’s thievery, simply sigh and make do with what is left to them.

  In the light of this summer morning, however, the repaired wall looks strong and solid, almost indistinguishable from the older parts of the structure. Within the wall, the castle
keep rises up, towering over the courtyard, and the early morning sun tints the masonry a ruddy gold. It filters through the window of an attic room high in the keep, where two girls lie sleeping, one dark head and one light. Lady Briar, the dark-haired one, opens her drowsy eyes, still emerging from her dreams. She rolls over into Princess Rose and gives her a poke on the shoulder. “Wake up, lazybones!” she says, and Rose’s eyes flutter open. They proceed to greet the dawn with all the buoyancy and optimism natural to healthy young humans. The morning routine becomes a giggling competition to see who can get dressed and downstairs first. They perform their minimal ablutions—a few ill-aimed splashes from the water basin—and dress quickly in their linen shifts and full-length tunics, tying long belts below their waists and attaching small leather pouches for carrying odds and ends.

  Briar is first out the door, but they race down the stairs to the castle chapel as the bell rings Prime. Rose skips to a halt as she sees Bishop Simon standing in the doorway of the chapel, looking accusatory and grim. His large belly takes up so much space that they must pass single file through the doorway. Rose hastily folds her hands in front of her, straightening her spine and lifting her chin in a practiced imitation of her mother’s royal bearing, while Briar, who fears the clergyman’s sharp tongue, does her best to remain invisible in Rose’s shadow. “I win!” whispers Rose over her shoulder to Briar.

  The girls enter the chapel for morning mass soberly, for they have known it all their lives as a place of power and mysteries. As the family gathers, the girls take in the carved altar, the rich paintings, and the statuary. They listen to the service silently, but their solemnity does not last. Rose signals Briar with a set of complex hand gestures, subtle nods, and eye rolls that serve as a private language between them, especially during daily services. She draws Briar’s attention to young Bosley, the altar boy, whose voice cracks and changes whenever he sings the responses in the service. The bishop gives the lad a scathing look, as if the boy is deliberately ruining what is supposed to be a perfect ritual. Bosley turns crimson with shame. Rose affects a cough to hide her smirk, but Briar blushes in sympathy with him and circumspectly casts down her eyes, pretending not to have witnessed his embarrassment.