Just Ella (13 page)

I reminded myself this was no time for all that delicacy training to kick in.

“It's stolen,” Mary said hesitantly.

I took her meaning.

“I'll hide it by daylight,” I promised. “I won't get you in trouble.”

“I wish I could do the digging for you,” she said wistfully.

“So do I,” I joked. Mary didn't laugh. “But it's fitting—I got myself into this mess, so I've got to get myself out. Now, I'd love the company, but it's not safe for you to stay. And don't you need sleep?”

“Aye,” she murmured. “I'll come back when I can.”

As soon as I'd sent Mary away, I took a deep breath of relatively fresh air and lowered myself into the hole. I left the shovel on the dirt floor until I was down several feet, my knees braced against the sides of the hole. The stench was overwhelming. At first I held my breath, but I started feeling light-headed even as I reached back for the shovel. That wouldn't do. I gave up and inhaled deeply. After a few moments—when I figured I had become one with the smell—it stopped bothering me.

Awkwardly, I pulled the shovel down into the hole with me. The trick would be to dig far down enough on the side of the hole that the floor wouldn't collapse on my tunnel, but not so low that I'd lose a lot of time digging up to the surface once I reached the other side of the castle walls. I picked a spot about three feet down and poked the tip of the shovel into the packed earth. The shovel's handle was too long to fit straight across the hole, so I had to hold it at an awkward angle. Pushing with all my might, I managed to dislodge two pebbles and a sprinkling of dust. That wouldn't do.

I tried every other angle possible—even shimmying up the hole and bending over with the shovel below my feet.
But all I accomplished was to give myself severe back cramps. I climbed out of the hole to recover and think.

Me and my bright ideas. I heard the clock strike one, and I wondered if I might be better served by trying to get a good night's sleep so I'd have my wits about me when I saw Madame Bisset the next day. Could I somehow make her an ally, talk her into helping me escape? In the dark I pictured her face, the prim set of her lips, the upward tilt of her nose, the coldness of her eyes. No, she'd never be on my side. I'd do better pretending to cave in, just so they'd let me out of the dungeon. And then I could escape, once they no longer watched me so carefully.

Except they'd probably never stop watching me so carefully. I tried to imagine the rest of my life, always under guard, like a bird in a gilded cage. I couldn't live like that. I couldn't even pretend to want to live like that. The shovel was my only hope. If only the handle weren't so long—

With the speed of tinder catching fire, I realized my stupidity.
Okay, Ella, the handle's too long? So break it!

I slammed it against my knee, and it split in two with a satisfying clunk.

I climbed back into the hole wondering how stupid I would have become if I'd stayed a princess much longer. Maybe that was the problem with everyone in the castle. Their lives were so soft and dull, they never had to think. Maybe under different circumstances Prince Charming would be designing buildings, writing books, speaking sixteen different languages. Maybe even my most vapid lady-in-waiting,
Simprianna, was secretly capable of great genius.

That was such a laughable thought that I had extra energy thrusting the shovel back into the wall of the hole. This time I got out four pebbles and a clod of dirt the size of an apple.

At least this was an improvement.

I worked steadily the rest of the night, stopping to rest only once an hour, when I heard the palace clock chime. I told myself my goal that first night was only to make a big enough tunnel to hide the shovel in. But I reached that milestone at three o'clock, and mustered up the will to keep going. Madame Bisset had threatened to keep me in the dungeon until the wedding date, which was now just two weeks away. I was confident of my ability to dig myself out before that. But what if her threat was just a threat? What if they took pity on me and moved me back to my usual room after a few days? That certainly had nicer accommodations, but it was still a prison. And I didn't know how to escape from there.

As daybreak approached I began to fear that a guard or Madame Bisset might show up to check on me in the early morn. When I heard the five o'clock chiming, I pushed my shovel as far back into my tunnel as it would go and carefully climbed out of the hole for the day. My arms and shoulders ached, and my legs had long ago gone numb. I barely managed to stumble over to the plank bed. I believe I was asleep before the final
dong
of five.

My cell was still dim when Madame Bisset's voice woke me.

“So, sloth is among the faults we must cure in you,” she jeered. “Are you worth the effort?”

Sleep startled, I was at a loss for dealing with this new, coarsened Madame Bisset. I held my tongue but sat up dizzily. My head ached and, once I began to move, so did every muscle in my body.

“What—what time is it?” I asked.

“High noon,” she all but cackled. “Don't you see the lovely sunshine coming in the window?”

I refrained from pointing out that whatever lovely sunshine there might be outdoors would never venture into the dungeon—or anywhere else in the castle, for that matter.

“Did you get enough beauty rest?” she continued.

I decided an attempt at dignity would serve me well today. I didn't have enough energy for defiance.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

I heard slow, pounding footsteps coming down the hallway behind her. They put me in mind of hideous fairy tale giants, the kind that chant “Fee-fi-fo-fum” and brag about smelling blood. The man who appeared outside my barred window fit the image. He towered over Madame Bisset by at least a foot and a half. His clothes were filthy and torn, his hair and beard were a mass of tangles, and his leer was the most lecherous I'd ever seen. For the first time, I was glad of the heavy door of my cell.

“If I may introduce you to your jailer,” Madame Bisset said, her perfect accent and primness returned. I didn't miss the point: She considered this brute more worthy of her manners than I was. “Princess Cynthiana Eleanora, this is Quog. Quog, Princess Cynthiana Eleanora.”

Quog drooled.

“Heh,” he rumbled.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, determined to match Madame Bisset in this pretense.

“Quog has been instructed to take very good care of you until the wedding,” Madame Bisset said.

“And after?” I asked boldly.

Madame Bisset raised one eyebrow.

“If there is an after— If you prove to be unreformable and are still here, then— Quog has been told your fate is entirely in his hands. He may do as he wishes.”

I wished I hadn't asked.

“Heh,” Quog said again. “Heh-heh.”

He panted like a dog begging for a treat.

“I want,” he grunted. “That.” He pointed at me.

“You're trying to scare me,” I said to Madame Bisset. “It won't work.” But against my will, an edge of fear crept into my voice.

Madame Bisset only smiled at me.

“Not now,” she told Quog. “For today, just give her her gruel.”

He slid a bowl through a space in the bars. Reluctantly, I stepped forward and tried to take it from him. But as soon as I was in reach, he grabbed my hand. His skin was leathery but strangely moist. I struggled to pull away, but he was too strong for me.

“No,” Madame Bisset said forcefully. “Not today, Quog. You must let go.”

Quog looked from me to her. He moaned like a scolded dog.

“Awww—” But he dropped my hand.

My bowl of gruel turned upside down on the floor.

“Too bad,” Madame Bisset said. “That was your only meal today.”

At the moment I didn't care. I rubbed my hand where Quog had touched me. I longed to go scrub it, he was that disgusting.

“Quog, you are dismissed,” Madame Bisset said.

When he had lurched away, she leaned close and said, “Quog doesn't have a key to your cell. Yet.”

I made myself stop rubbing my hand.

“Maybe—” I gulped. “Maybe it's just his appearance that's revolting. Maybe he's truly a very good person.”

Madame Bisset laughed as if I'd told the world's funniest joke.

“No,” she said cheerfully. “He's revolting through and through. Now, I must be going. Will you return with me?”

“Return to what?” I asked cautiously.

“Your rightful place,” she said. “I believe the dressmaker would like you to try on your wedding gown again.”

“Then I'll stay right here,” I said.

“I hope you enjoy Quog's company,” she said lightly, and turned and left.

Her departure must have been Quog's cue. The rest of the day he lingered outside my cell, alternating “heh's” and “I want's.” Once, I decided to test my theory.

“Quog,” I asked. “Did you have a happy childhood?”

“No,” he said. “Wanted women. Couldn't get them. Now big. Get what want. Heh.”

I lay down on my plank and closed my eyes, deciding to ignore him.

The next few days I did my best to sleep all day, to have energy to work all night. Each shovelful of dirt I removed and dropped down the crap hole carried Quog's face on it for me. I worked like a madwoman, without breaks. I tried to calculate how many more “heh-heh's” I'd have to endure. I tried to figure out what I'd do once I escaped. But my mind was too hazy from lack of food to think at all. The spilled gruel scene was repeated each day, along with Madame Bisset's fake, “Too bad.” I feared I might soon consent to Madame Bisset's, “Would you like to return with me?”
only out of starvation delirium. I thought I had been hungry before, but I'd never gone entirely without food.

On the third day, as soon as Madame Bisset was gone, I rushed to lick the floor where the gruel had fallen. I believe I managed to lap up only three flakes of meal and two weevils. But the sight of me on my knees sent Quog into howls of excitement.

“If you want me alive for the next two weeks,” I said crossly, “you'll bring me more gruel.”

Quog only howled louder.

Digging that night, I had to pause between each shovel load. I tried to remember if any of my father's books had contained information about how long someone could live without food. Surely it was many days. Surely Madame Bisset would not truly let me starve.

“Princess?”

With renewed energy, I scrambled out of the hole.

“Mary?”

“I brought you some food,” she whispered. “I thought, with all that digging . . .”

Tears of relief blurred my eyes.

“You have saved my life,” I blubbered. “I can't thank you enough. I can't—” I couldn't talk anymore, for cramming bread and cheese into my mouth.

“Don't they feed you?” Mary asked.

“No,” I said.

She was silent, as if attempting to grasp their strategy.

“They think you'll cave soon,” she said finally.

I didn't care about anything but the food in my mouth.

“Is there more?” I asked.

She laughed.

“Cook's off tonight. I can get lots. Have you dug enough of the hole that you can hide a big bundle?”

“Oh, yes!”

She brought what looked like a treasure trove of plums and pears and apples, an entire wheel of cheese, and three loaves of bread. I was crying with joy as she handed each food through my bars.

“Don't go on like that, please,” she begged. “It's only plain stuff. I thought the fancy things might be missed.”

“You don't understand. Weevils were starting to taste good to me. And then there's Quog—”

“Is he here?” Mary asked. Her voice trembled.

“Yes,” I said. “He's my jailer. Lovely gentleman, isn't he?”

“Then you should dig fast.”

I couldn't get her to explain more.

“I don't want to scare you,” she said.

“But you already have,” I muttered.

“Sorry,” she said. “I should go. I'll try to come back the next time cook's off.”

I started to protest, wanting company now that my belly would let me think of something besides food. But her words “You should dig fast” were still echoing in my ears. I went back into the crap hole and dug as much as I'd dug the previous two nights put together.

By the end of the fifth night, I was ready to curve my tunnel upward. I estimated it would take me only an hour or two from there, because I'd be helped by gravity bringing the dirt down. Would I dare break through the surface and escape at five in the morning?

Reluctantly, I decided it was too much risk. I wanted to put an entire night's travel between me and the castle before my disappearance was discovered. I put my shovel down and crawled back to my cell.

That next day was an agony. To be so close to freedom, but not to have it, made Quog's disgusting leers and taunts even more unendurable. When Madame Bisset showed up for the noon gruel routine, I had to struggle not to laugh in her face.
You've had five days of torture,
I told myself.
You can't act like you have any hope.

“Have you come to your senses yet?” she asked.

“I still have senses about me,” I retorted. “But—can't you feed me?”

Immediately, I realized my voice was too strong and self-assured.

“Please?” I made myself whimper. “I'm starving.”

I sucked in my cheeks, although I thought the cell was too dark for her to notice that I wasn't as emaciated as I should be after five days without food.

Madame Bisset looked puzzled.

“Quog hasn't been bringing you extra food, has he?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

I pretended to misunderstand.