Tales of Arilland (12 page)

Papa said nothing as he watched his women climb inside the carriage. He twisted the small gold medallion on the chain around his neck; Sunday had come by her nervous idle hands honestly. She suddenly wished she had her book with her to keep her company. To give her courage.

Papa had tears in his eyes when he looked at Sunday. She felt miserable. Like she was betraying him by even attending the ball. Like she was betraying Grumble.

Once at the palace they walked up the steps and across the yard to where the gaggle of other women were waiting to be announced at the Grand Entrance. Sunday was sure that the Woodcutter women made an odd picture. Mama was humble in her matronly mauve. Friday almost skipped in her scarlet. Saturday lumbered in her lavender, her flat-footed gait betraying the fact that she hated wearing a dress more than anything in the world, and that she would have preferred a death sentence to what awaited beyond those doors. Wednesday glided, a waif in her fairy-kissed grey, as if she were wearing her own shadow. And Sunday in her silver walked next to them, feeling more the pretender and betrayer with every step that she took.

Sunday didn’t realize she had no idea what she was getting into until she walked through the doors of the Grand Entrance and stood on the landing overlooking the ballroom floor.

It was more people than she had ever seen in her life.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her face flushed. Her heart raced. She froze in place, unable to take another step forward. She felt Wednesday’s cool hand slip inside her clammy one, and it gave her the courage to move forward to the top of the red-carpeted stairs. She immediately saw herself plummeting down them.

Wednesday squeezed her fingers.

“Missus Seven Woodcutter,” the servant announced, “and her daughters: Miss Wednesday, Miss Friday, Miss Saturday, and Miss Sunday Woodcutter.”

Sunday wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole room had turned to laugh at their ridiculous names. Thank God there were only four of them. She picked up her skirts in one hand and held fast to Wednesday with the other, letting her sister ease her slowly down the steps.

She was happy to see a familiar face meet them at the bottom, smiling behind a jewel-studded fan.

“Monday,” Mama crooned as she embraced her eldest daughter. Sunday’s eyes never left the fan. So much nonsense over a stupid cow that wasn’t worth half of the useless accessory her sister currently held nonchalantly in her hand. But Mama’s pride kept her from taking any charity from Monday, and they were all better off for it. As she reminded them. Daily.

Sunday’s princess sister took her hand from Wednesday’s and looked her over. Sunday bowed her head in a small curtsey.

“She looks like Tuesday,” Monday said to Mama.

Mama turned. Sunday thought it might have been the first time in her life her mother had actually
looked
at her. “She does, a little,” Mama said after a pause.

Sunday’s racing heart tripped over itself and skipped a beat in the process. It was the nicest thing her mother had ever said to her. The music stopped. The room went quiet. Sunday was too shocked to notice anything, until she realized that her family were staring at a point just to the left of her head. Behind her.

“Miss Woodcutter,” he said.

Sunday turned slowly, and uttered the first words that came to mind that were not profane. “Your Highness.”

“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in the next dance?”

From a man like him, it was a rhetorical question. Sunday straightened out of her curtsey and took his hand as he led her to the center of the room. She stared at the gold medal on his breast, afraid to look at him.

She did not think the prince was simply a shallow man with an eye for a pretty face; there were many girls much prettier than she in the room. He must have known of their connection. Even if he had been too young to remember it, surely he must have heard the legend of Jack Junior. Perhaps this was his way of mending ways between their families. Perhaps this was his way of demonstrating that he always got what he wanted. Perhaps this was a display of his complete and utter ignorance.

The band started a waltz.

Oh why me
, Sunday repeated to herself with every movement.
Oh why me, oh why me, oh why me
...over and over again as they turned in the sea of beautiful people, over and over again until she slipped and said it aloud.

“Why?” said the prince. “Well, because I needed to ask someone a question, and you looked intelligent enough to answer it honestly.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” It was a knee-jerk reaction to curtsey at the title, and Sunday found herself stumbling. The prince spun her around to cover up the misstep.

“My fault,” he said quickly. “So, are you ready for my question?”

She nodded sternly.

“Do I look as stupid as I feel?”

Sunday bit her lips together and tried not to laugh. One did not laugh at His Royal Highness. After a count of three, she felt calm enough to reply. “It would not matter if Your Highness was wearing a sackcloth,” she said. “Or nothing at all. No one would ever think you looked stupid, and if they did they would not be traitorous enough to say so.”

“Exactly,” said the prince. “Which is why I am asking you. I think myself a relatively good judge of character, and I have a feeling that you are the type of person who does not lie casually.”

“In that case,” said Sunday, “you look fine. Very smart. Very handsome. As a prince should look. Although...”

“Tell me.”

“There is a bit of your hair sticking out on the left side.”

“I knew it!” the prince said through his teeth. “Damn nuisance. There is no help for it.”

“I’m sure if you smoothed it down with your hand quickly, no one would notice.”

“You said it yourself, Miss Woodcutter. Everyone is looking. Everyone would notice, and they would all say I was too vain for my own good.”

“I would do it for you,” offered Sunday, “but everyone would say I was too familiar.”

The prince threw back his head and laughed loudly. Sunday tensed in his arms as she felt every eye in the room turn to them in wonder. She was instantly reminded of her place in the world. Perhaps it was a good thing. She had been feeling entirely too comfortable with this man who was supposed to be her enemy. She felt her cheeks turn instantly red, which no doubt sent more tongues wagging.

“I love that you blush.”

“Why did you do that?” Sunday whispered.

“Because everyone was looking,” he said, “and now everyone is gossiping. Everyone already assumes that you are too familiar, so you must dance every dance with me after this. And in order to save yourself the humiliation of being seen dancing with a lunatic all night, you have no choice but to fix my hair.”

He smiled in triumph.

“Scoundrel.” Sunday reached out a hand and coaxed his dark hair back behind his ear.

Half the room gasped.

Sunday didn’t care.

That night in bed, Sunday wrote about her very long day, about her dress and the people at the ball. She wrote about her sisters and their escapades. She wrote that she had made a friend, and that she had danced every dance. But she did not mention the prince to Grumble, to what would be to Grumble when she saw him again. It pained her to not be able to speak of the happiness that brimmed to overflowing inside her, but she did not feel comfortable mentioning this man to her best friend. This man who was a man, and not a frog. This man who was not just a man, but a prince. A prince who was her father’s sworn enemy.

A prince she was falling in love with.

#

T
he next day
started so much like the one before it that it took Sunday a while to realize the previous night hadn’t been a dream. She awoke to her mother yanking the book out from beneath her head and scolding her for letting the candle burn down. Sunday yawned and rose to get started on her chores...and then noticed the silver dress in the corner. She clasped her pillow to her breast and allowed herself two gluttonous minutes of dancing around the room before she sobered and took the dress downstairs for Friday to alter for the night’s festivities.

Saturday “injured” herself in the Wood that day, and she limped around the house quite convincingly until Mama caved and told her she did not have to go to the ball. The hired carriage was a little less cramped that night, and Sunday thought Papa seemed happier to have one of his girls stay behind to keep him company. He still looked at Sunday wistfully as she mounted the carriage steps, and she wondered if it was her resemblance to Tuesday that made him sad, or if he could see through her skin to her traitorous heart.

Friday had done wonders retrimming Sunday’s dress with gold, Wednesday’s with blue, and hers and Mamas with pieces of silver from Sunday’s the night before. But this night was different, and there were so many people at the palace that the Woodcutter women were instantly swept up in the crowd and separated from each other as soon as they alighted from the carriage. Sunday called out to her mother and sisters, but she could not hear them above the din of the voices that surrounded her. Her heart began to race again, and goosebumps rose up on her skin. She looked around frantically.

The two girls next to her turned...and snarled.

Sunday didn’t see who landed the first punch, the one that connected with her stomach and made her double over as she struggled to regain her wind. She could not tell how many hands tore at her ribbons and ripped her dress to shreds, she only heard their shrieks like wild animals above the rending of fabric. Someone’s pointed slipper connected with her ribs, and she knew that if she did not stand, she would surely be killed. Her cheek was scratched, and soot was rubbed into her hair and pushed into her mouth. Somehow she blindly made her way to a wall of the castle, found a door, and fell inside the kitchen to safety.

One scullery maid bolted the door, while another sat Sunday down by the fire and held a damp cloth to her wounds. Sunday begged a third not to tell the prince. Which she could only assume is exactly what the girl did once she passed out.

Words and small images came and went through Sunday’s consciousness. She was lifted up into strong arms, and a fresh dress was ordered for her. She was changed and tidied and her wounds were tended to by women with soft hands who sounded like silk and smelled of lilacs. She was taken to a place where nightingales sang in the trees above and the sounds of a party could be heard floating in the distance on the cool night air.

Sunday awoke with her head on soft velvet, her hand covering a royal gold medal.

“They will only hate me more for making you miss your own ball,” she said to the prince from his shoulder.

“The hellions should be grateful I did not call off the evening altogether. I have never seen such savagery.”

“The female of the species...” Sunday chuckled, and her ribs suddenly regretted it.

“It is my fault for singling you out.”

“It is my fault for wanting to be singled out,” Sunday fought back, “and the curse of an interesting life. There are very good times and very bad times. Black and white. Things aren’t usually nice shades of grey. Tonight was the price I paid for having such a wonderful time yesterday.”

“Do not attempt to justify their actions,” said the prince. “You deserve better. From all of us.” He smoothed her hair with his hand, and she was too weary and too selfish to tell him to stop. “This will not happen again tomorrow.”

Sunday lifted her head from the prince’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “There can be no tomorrow, surely you realize that.”

“There will be. I will send a carriage at sundown, and my guardsmen will accompany you and your family to the Entrance. You have my word; no harm will come to you.”

But that’s not it at all, she wanted to tell him. Don’t you see how far I am beneath you? Don’t you see that my family doesn’t have enough money to afford three dresses for each of their daughters for a ball every night? Don’t you remember that I’m a Woodcutter, and that your evil fairy godmother turned my brother into a dog and my father will never give me permission to...to...

She let the manic words winnow away to nothing. Her heart was gone; she had betrayed her friend and her family, and whatever happened, happened.

“Thank you.”

“And now,” said the prince as he lifted her into his arms, “I will send you home to rest. I will go back to the party and tell your mother that you have fallen ill with fatigue as a result of the crowd.”

He was good; that wasn’t entirely a lie. “I can walk, you know.”

He ignored Sunday’s protests. “And then I will woo your mother and dance with your sisters all night until every other woman in the room is green with envy.”

She swatted his shoulder. “Beast.”

He sat her down gently in the carriage and kissed her hand.

“Good night, my Sunday.”

“Good night, my prince.”

The house was dark when Sunday arrived home, and she was grateful. She quietly and carefully climbed the stairs to her tower room and eased the new dress over her bruised body. She threw back the covers of her bed and saw her book, small and lonely on the pillow.

But Sunday could not bring herself to write the words.

She turned her face into the pillow and cried herself to sleep.

#

W
hen Mama poked
Sunday awake the next morning, she screamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You startled me.”

“You have more to be sorry for than that. You started quite the scandal, disappearing off with the prince last night.”

“I was...ill.”

“So ill you ruined your dress?” Mama scoffed. “Don’t lie to me, Sunday. It isn’t you.” Sunday opened her mouth, but Mama held up a hand. “Don’t tell me the truth either, because I don’t want to lie to your father. Just tell me this. Are you in love with him?”

“Yes.” All Sunday’s torment filled up that one word and spilled over the sides.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

And then the strangest thing happened.