6) Pouch
That night she slept deeply, scrubbed clean in water she drew from the well and heated herself. The following morning, she bundled her few belongings, pouch, flask, the woodcutter's knife and the cloak, into a small pack. The cook came up the long stars to help her bathe and dress in rich white satin, trimmed in scarlet, and golden shoes beaded with glass for her feet. Marnie's eyes were red, but she tried to be cheerful and encouraging as she trimmed Bronwyn's nails and brushed her hair smooth, leaving it to hang long down her back in a silken fall of midnight, tiny white flowers caught in the masses like stars.
After a small luncheon, the Lord Mayor came to her door and knocked politely. The cook let him in, hugged Bronwyn hard, and left. Her benefactor walked around her, examining the effect of the bath and new clothing, and nodded briefly, deep in thought. Bronwyn gathered her pack and took his arm awkwardly when he offered it to her.
"You needn't take anything, you know," he said, as they descended the long stairs.
"There are things one takes along, no matter what the journey's end," she replied absently, concentrating on not tripping in the unfamiliar slippers.
A coach with the King's crest emblazoned on all its livery waited for them, and she was reassured to see the former constable in the ranks of the guard assigned to it. He stepped forward and took her pack from her as she was handed into the carriage, and she smiled at him in thanks, no longer worried that she would not be allowed to keep those humble things. Dale would return them when the time was right.
The sun was just setting as the horses pulled them into the torch-lit courtyard. The Lord Mayor stepped down and then turned to take her hand, his fingers soft and uncalloused around hers. With stately grace enforced by her poor balance in the heeled shoes, they walked up the stairs to the solemn group awaiting them at the top.
Bronwyn had never seen the king before, but kept her eyes lowered as she was introduced to her bridegroom. Another man began to speak, and after a moment she recognized the words of the marriage rite, and was startled into looking up into the face of the archprelate who was binding her life to this stranger's. His eyes were a dull pewter, and he did not smile as he spoke the joyous words. She looked past him and saw a girl, perhaps twelve years old, slender and dressed in scarlet silks. Her hair was finely kept, her skin glowed with the application of cosmetics, but there was something vaguely absent in her expression. Bronwyn glanced up at the face of her king and saw his gaze lingering on the girl with a hunger that left her cold despite her heavy satin wedding dress. Seeing her movement, the king looked down at her and smiled, his fingers tightening painfully on her hand. She cast her eyes down again, her thoughts frozen by that look and an old nightmare. His hair was the black of a raven’s wing, and the eyes were cold, predatory, a yellow glint in light brown depths. The Wolf was watching her.
The archprelate finished the ceremony and the king bent and kissed her, lips and teeth and tongue forcing her mouth open and choking away her breath. Dazed, she would have lost her balance, but his grip on her arm and waist held her trapped. His mouth released her, and she hardly noticed as they were escorted into the palace and through the long corridors to the royal apartments. He left her in an ornate sitting room, the door closing firmly behind him as the guards withdrew.
7) Splinter
Shivering, she wondered what fickle twist of fate or luck had brought her here, out of poverty and harsh labor, out of the woods, into a luxury she could barely believe, only to be trapped, finally, by the Wolf. Pushing despair away, she noticed that the room was cold, the fire laid buy unlit. That, if nothing else, she could change.
When she finished, the flames cheerfully licked the birchwood and ash. She went to the window, the finely diamond cut panes still glimmering red with the last of the sunlight. Opening the window, she found herself looking out over a breathtaking precipice, the castle walls ending in a cliff face above a chasm whose bottom she could only guess at.
Dizzy with the height, frightened by the prospect of falling, she stepped away from the window, too shaken to pull it closed. An icy breeze rushed in after, plucking at her sleeves and turning her towards the inner chamber door, standing open.
The bedroom was lush with velvets and satins and fur, red and gold and black. The immense bed, with its copious hanging canopies, seemed to her more like the mouth of some enormous beast than a place to sleep. There was another fireplace, though, and that fire was already lit. The dancing firelight reassured her a bit, as did the neatly stacked firewood to the side. Ignoring the bed, she entered the room and went to the hearth, fingers unconsciously tracing the rough end of a piece of ashwood, the bite of an axe still deep in the wood-grain. Peace and a sweet strangeness stole over her, and she found herself smiling, just a little, not knowing why.
The peace was shattered as she heard the door of the sitting room open, and she whirled to face the intruder, driving a splinter deep into her finger. The girl in crimson silks stood there, her eyes empty of everything but a vague angry curiosity as she stared at Bronwyn.
"Who are you?" Bronwyn asked finally, as the silence drew out.
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"Janette," the girl answered, and Bronwyn realized that she was the princess.
"Oh," Bronwyn said, surprised. "I'd thought you'd be..." She stopped, and the tickle of purpose began to wake her from the fear-spell of the wolf.
"What? You thought I"d be what?" Janette came towards her, hair dull dark brown in the firelight and candle-light, her eyes pale as glass and lifeless as paste diamonds.
"You aren't what I'd imagined of a princess," Bronwyn said diplomatically, trying to ignore the desperation in the girl's eyes. With a start, Bronwyn realized what it might be to live with the Wolf, and to not even know that there might be a rescue. Pity moved her, and a little compassion. "But having never met a princess, I don't suppose I would know what to expect."
"I wish you'd tell me how I should be," The princess drifted towards the window and stood there a moment, looking out at the edge of the world.
"It's not for me to say," Bronwyn whispered. Tears slipped down the princess's cheeks, paler even than a sheltered maiden's should be. She reached out to touch the girl's hand, saw the bruise on the wrist as the arm moved smoothly out of range and the silken sleeve rode up onto her forearm. "Sweet mercy," Bronwyn breathed as she realized the meaning of the look the King had given his daughter earlier that evening.
"It's nothing. My father loves me." A tense defiance stiffened the girl's spine, brought the thin shoulders back and the chin up. For a moment, she was almost regal.
"I see," Bronwyn replied, not daring to say more."
"He'll love you, too, Stepmother, maybe even more than he loves me." The gaze died again, fire seeping away from her, the shoulders slumping and the head bowed.
"Nothing is certain. Nothing is ever certain." Bronwyn twitched her skirts aside, and the hidden occupant blinked in the sudden light, his brindle and black spotted coat shining in the firelight. Fully grown, he was barely a hand and a half tall, but more than three from shoulder to tail, and his expression was mournful as he gazed up at his mistress, expecting that he'd be in trouble. "Well, misbehaving dogs are always certain,” she added, reassured and delighted that he'd managed to come so far without being discovered. He set about exploring the suite, assured that he wasn't in immediate danger of her wrath.
"He'll come to you soon," Janette said, and there was an edge to her words. Bronwyn felt her stomach clench as she realized it was jealousy she was hearing from the child-woman. "That's OK, though. When he's finished with you, he'll be mine again." Before Bronwyn could even think of a reply, the girl was gone. Troubled, Bronwyn pulled the window closed and went to sit by the fire, careful to keep her fine satin skirts out of the ashes. The dog came to her, and she petted his head absently, pulling the long ears through her fingers gently, and he groaned in pleasure. She winced, noticing the splinter in her finger, and carefully teased it out. A single drop of blood rose on the flesh.
"I suppose there's another thing that's certain," she mused. "That child couldn't run a kitchen, much less a kingdom." She stared into the flames, trying not to think about what would come later, careful to keep the blood off of her dress. She was no virgin, though she couldn't remember the name of the sweetheart who had wooed her in a dim past devoid of witches and wolves. When she thought of the King, though, now her husband, a cold finger of fear touched her belly. Tears blurred the flames in her vision, and they seemed that they were made of living things. Slender gold and orange creatures twined lizard-like over the wood, and the dog whined a little as one turned its head to look at them. Its blue-hot eye peered into Bronwyn's soul, warming her face with its dry and blistering breath. She blinked, and the tears fell into the scant ashes on the edge of the hearth. Sitting back, she rubbed her face and tried to remember when she'd leaned forward so far.
The salamander, for surely that's what the little fire elemental was, delicately edged away from the glowing nest of its kin, lapping up the ashy tears where they beaded in the soot. Its tiny scales flashed blue and yellow and white, and it crackled a little as it smiled at her.
"What do you wish, lady witch?" Its voice was the muted roar of an oven, the hiss of a tiny forge as the bellows pump air through the fire.
"I don't know,” she replied, startled. “May I think about it?"
The salamander bowed its head gracefully. "As you are a witch, and as you are wise, too, you may wait til dawn to ask." It climbed back up onto the burning log, a finger-long ripple of flame.
A bit of breeze touched the back of Bronwyn's neck, and she turned to see a maidservant enter. The girl went to a tall wardrobe and produced a nightgown that was more gauze than substance. The abigail stepped back to wait, obviously ready to help Bronwyn with the elaborate laces on both the dress and the nightgown. When she was finally undressed, the maid helped her wash in the opulent bathing room hidden beyond the bedroom; its plumbing included copper spigots that brought heated water directly into the tub, something Bronwyn had never seen but thought very convenient. It was done quickly, and the maid carefully hung Bronwyn's wedding gown in the wardrobe.
"What happened to your neck?" Bronwyn's eyes lingered on the ugly burn showing just above the girl's collar.
The maid was startled into meeting Bronwyn's gaze, and she flushed, her fingers covering the burn self-consciously. "It's nothing, Your Highness." Bronwyn, remembering the wicked words of the Lord Mayor's daughters, also remembered explaining away her own bruises to the young constable.
"Well, don't let it fester. Bring me marifleur and hot water in the morning, please, and bring me my tray yourself." The girl curtseyed obediently. "Do you serve the king as well as the princess?" Bronwyn hazarded the guess.
"We all serve the King. The princess is to be preferred," the maid's fingers went to the burn again unconsciously. She left Bronwyn alone again. The dog came to his mistress, and she picked him up and shoved him into the wardrobe.
Almost immediately after the serving girl's exit, the suite doors were thrown open yet again, and Bronwyn heard His boot heels loud on the marble tiles of the floor.