A Grimm Curse: A Grimm Tales Novella (Volume 3) (10 page)

“Longer than the talking frog?” Ann asked.

“Longer than that,” Cynthia agreed, putting Remi on her shoulder and sweeping out of the kitchen.

Chapter
1
2

“They say only
crazy people talk to themselves.
”

DUSK HAD DEEPENED TO FULL dark. Cynthia placed Remi on a nearby branch and stood under
her
mother’s tree. She tipped her head back to look into the branches. Closing her eyes Cynthia breathed in the familiar
hazel
smell
of hazel
. It calmed her and gave her strength.

“Hi, Mom.” Cynthia placed a light hand on the bark of the trunk and leaned her forehead on the rough surface. It was the closest she had come to a hug in a long time. “I’m going to need a little help tonight. A dress, for a masked ball. It’s for a good cause, I promise.”

The tree shivered as if a stiff wind passed through the leaves. But there was no wind. From the branches, the birds descended. They enveloped her in a tornado of feathers. Cynthia closed her eyes and held very still. She had never seen this particular magic from the hazel tree, but she trusted her mother.

When she first
discovered
realized
she could ask
her mother’s
tree for things, she didn’t hesitate to make requests that made her more comfortable in her dungeon room. Down pillows, a warm shawl, new boots. But she
soon
discovered
pretty soon that
anything she owned that was new or pretty
soon
ended up in the hands of either Portia or Coriander. If it didn’t fit them, they’d take it out of spite. The only things they didn’t seem interested in were the things they considered trash. So Cynthia filled her room with worn and broken odds and ends and she stopped asking her mother for things. That way she could at least keep what she had.

The birds brushed her skin, her hair, her eyes—and where they touched her, she ignited with a gentle heat, like the hot sun on her bare skin. The warmth spread and grew, until she was cocooned in it. The funnel of birds dissipated a little at a time, until it was just Cynthia, standing under her mother’s hazel tree. The fire on her skin sunk in deep and kindled something in her. Something fierce and courageous that had lain dormant for too long.

She opened her eyes. Remi was still perched in the tree. His eyes looked like they were ready to pop out of his head. This combined with his slack jaw made for such a ridiculous expression on the face of a frog—Cynthia let out a peal of laughter.

It was
th
e
kind of laugh that made her short of breath and her stomach ache. She couldn’t remember the last time she was happy enough to let go like that.

“I don’t think you have to worry about anyone recognizing you,” Remi croaked out.

“What do I look like?” Cynthia asked, reaching up to pat her face and hair.

“Don’t do that, you’ll mess it up. Come on. You don’t look in the mirror enough anyway.” Remi launched himself out of the tree and hopped toward the house. Cynthia followed after him, giggling as she wobbled on her strappy candy red heels. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t the giggling kind of girl.

Cynthia picked Remi up as she passed him on the stairs and barged right into Lady Wellington’s room. She had a large freestanding mirror that would show her full costume.

Forget anyone at the feast recognizing her—she didn’t recognize herself. Cynthia wore a dress varying
in
shades of red from cherry that matched her shoes to vivid crimson. The knee-length skirt was made entirely of feathers as long and thick as her arm. The back had been gathered together and was
a
little longer, giving the impression of a fanned tail. The bodice was fitted and had matching red feathers fingering their way up her collarbone. The back collar of the dress was magnificent. Stiff, it stood tall, fanning out and back, framing her face like a queen in a Victorian painting. Her hair was clean and curled, cascading around her shoulders, nestling into the flamboyant collar. Instead of a mask, her face had been painted a deep ruby red, feathering out from her eyes in bold strokes. The entire ensemble made her a dead ringer for a life-sized cardinal.

“It
would
be a bird,” Cynthia said, grinning at her reflection and turning to check out her ‘tail.’ “Look, Remi—Mom thought about you too.” She held out a small matching handbag that strapped to her wrist. Just big enough for a set of car keys and a compact—or a small frog.

“I’m not complaining, mind you, but this is my least favorite part of being a frog,” Remi said.

“At least you can see,” Cynthia said, peering at him through the loose mesh. “Let’s go.”

“How are we getting there?”

Cynthia considered this a second before swinging out the front door, pulling it shut behind her. The night was mild, filled with the scent of the pines lining the road. A full moon, low and bright orange, peeked through the trunks of the trees.

“I say we walk,” she told Remi.

“I thought we discovered it was too far to walk the other night
,
” Remi said. He seemed baffled by Cynthia’s high spirits and newfound confidence.

“True,” she said, striding along the middle of the dirt road. “But I’ve got shoes on this time and have a feeling we’ll get lucky.”

Ten minutes later, just past the Levinsons
’
farm, a single headlight and a small engine pulled beside her. A boy pulled off a tight leather helmet and surveyed her from the back of a dilapidated motorcycle. It looked like he had cobbled it together from two or three different bikes that had been retired to the junkyard. He was a few years younger than her with dark hair and startling green eyes. He gave her a half grin.

“Are you in the habit of walking in the center of the road in the middle of the night?”

“Only during a full moon.” Cynthia returned his
smile
. “Are you going to offer me a ride?”

“I guess that depends on where you’re going,” the boy said.

She raised an eyebrow at him,
gesturing
to her dress. “The castle of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, shaking his head at her slightly. “Get on.”

Straddling the back of the bike was out of the question in her current get up, so she sat sideways and wrapped an arm around the boy’s waist, tucking her legs up to keep them away from the hot engine.

“Hold on,” the boy said, opening the throttle. They buzzed through the deserted town, the noise of the engine swallowed up by the trees. Cynthia grinned into the boy’s back, loving the speed and the tight nervous feeling in her stomach when they took a corner a little too fast.

“Are you going to the feast too?” she yelled over the noise of the engine.

The boys shook his head, turning so she could hear him. “No, my mom works at the castle. She’ll be there all night. I’m just bringing her a few things.”

They wound up the drive of the castle. The grounds were deserted but the very stones of the building seemed to pulse with energy and music.

“Where do you want to be dropped off?” the boy yelled.

“Wherever you’re going,” Cynthia said.

He veered to the right. The sharp turn made her tighten her arm around his stomach. He parked the motorcycle beneath a lemon tree in a small kitchen garden. He held out a hand for Cynthia to swing herself off and hung his helmet on one of the handlebars.

“I’m Jack,” he said, sticking out a hand.

She hesitated for just a second before giving it a brief shake. “Cindy.”

He swung a sack over one shoulder and walked her inside to a narrow stone hallway smelling of overcooked cabbage. “This is where I leave you.”

“Here?” she asked, looking around the dim corridor.

“That way will take you to the ballroom,” he said nodding to a staircase set in the shadows. “This way is the kitchen.”

She nodded her thanks and started up the stairs. “I’ll be around a while, if you want a ride home,” he called after her. She lifted a hand in acknowledgement and kept climbing.

“Well, he seemed nice,” Remi quipped from her handbag.

The steps she was on must be another servant’s staircase. They were poorly lit, steep
,
and winding.

“He did,” Cynthia said, ignoring his sarcasm. She came to a landing with a choice of two staircases, both leading up. She sighed and on a whim, took the one on the left, wishing Jack had given her better directions.

She climbed until her legs ached and she considered taking off her heels. The stairs widened and wound around. She was about to go back down and try the other staircase—the ballroom couldn’t be this high up—when the top of the stairs came into view. A red velvet curtain blocked off the top
.
,
S
s
he pushed it aside and stepped into a wide, dim alcove. There was a railing with music trailing from the other side. She crossed over and looked out over the scene.

She’d found the ballroom, but she was a hundred feet above it. The railing was the boundary of a wide, secluded balcony. Below, an orchestra was set up on the stage she’d played on the night before. Couples
in costume
the size of dolls swirled and dipped below her
in costume
. The scene was a wash of energy and color. She leaned on the balustrade and flexed her aching feet, watching for a minute and enjoying the bird’s eye view without being seen.

“Wrong way,” she said to Remi concealed in her bag.

She turned back to the curtains and yelped at the unexpected figure standing at the top of the stairs wearing a bemused expression.

Crown Prince Wilhelm.

He was dressed like a French aristocrat in a long coat
of
rich blue with gold embroidery
,
his fake long hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
White tights showed off his muscular calves, but the buckled shoes almost ruined the effect.
Anyone else would have looked ridiculous; somehow he managed to appear striking.

“Looks like I’m not the only one looking for a hiding spot,” the prince said, a wry smile twisted on his lips.

“Your highness.” Cynthia came to her senses and curtsied, bowing her head. Her heart rolled around in her ribs. She had no way of knowing if he’d recognize her from the night before or not.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled toward her, managing to look casual despite the lace cascading out of his cuffs. “Who were you talking to?”

Cynthia was careful not to look at her handbag as she answered. “Myself I’m afraid. Bad habit.”

“They say only crazy people talk to themselves
.
,
”
T
t
he prince drew close enough to Cynthia she could feel the heat coming off his body
.
H
e passed her and leaned an elbow on the railing, gazing at the dancers.

Cynthia shrugged. “At least we always have a captive audience.”

The prince chuck
l
ed low and turned to her. Cynthia couldn’t help but notice his dark eyes crinkled around the corners when he smiled.

“Are you lost, then?” the prince asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” he said with a serious nod of his head, but his eyes were teasing. “If you’re talking to yourself I’m assuming you’ve come alone,” the prince said.

“I’m afraid my guardian didn’t approve of my attending.” She smiled in a guilty way and raised her eyes to a spot over his head. “I kind of snuck out.”

“A rebel then,” the prince said.

Cynthia was very conscious of his gaze taking in all of her. She went back to the railing and leaned on her elbows. They both watched the musicians pause
,
at the end of their number. Couples broke apart and the crowd below milled about like ants.

“Who is it you’re hiding from?” Cynthia asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you were looking for a hiding place.” Cynthia waved a hand at the ballroom below. “Which one?”

“All of them. Every fair maiden in Elorium is determined she would make a perfect future queen,” he said with a sigh. “Even the ones who aren’t so fair.”

Cynthia snorted, unsympathetic. “What did you expect when you announced you were looking for a bride?”

“
Not
my idea,” he said, glowering at the room full of hopeful women.

“Well,” Cynthia said, as the band began a country reel and the roaming ants paired off in a straight line
s
, “you could do me a favor.”