Charming, Volume 2 (15 page)

The passage gave way to a series of unused storerooms beneath the castle. Light flickered down through the dusty air from a row of barred windows set high in the walls above. Their footsteps echoed in the damp emptiness. Charming felt Liz shiver.

She leaned close and spoke softly so as not to disturb the eerie quiet of the chamber. “Are you sure this is right?”

He squeezed her hand and gave a reassuring smile. “As you know, in my former life as prince I was renowned for a number of skills—­most I now realize absolutely useless—­but one, which we are now benefiting from now, was my near preternatural ability to pop up anywhere in the castle at the most opportune or inopportune times, depending on the mischief I was interested in getting into, which most of the time involved procuring apricot tarts.”

“Oh, I love those,” said Liz. “But how did you do it?”

Charming smiled at her. “The truth is that every twist and turn, every stone of this place, is etched into the marrow of my bones. At the moment, we are walking through a series of vast storerooms that were used in dark times as a granary when siege was thought imminent. In another moment, there will be a turning, and then a rough stair . . . ahhh.”

As if by magic, the way turned and a kind of hewn ramp appeared. The flickering light of torches reached them from above. “Now please, no more questions. I haven't used this route since I was a young boy, when my greatest desire in life was to steal a glance at the women's bath, so I need to concentrate.”

Charming smiled to himself at the two exasperated clucks he received in response.

Their progress was slow, partly because of the need for stealth, but also because Charming found the walk, and especially the stairs, taxing. He was breathing harder and starting to limp. Still, he led the ladies steadily up into the heart of the castle. The hallways grew grander, and, at last, they found themselves crouched behind a suit of armor set in an alcove along a marbled passageway across from a pair of ornate double doors.

“Is that the entrance to the chapel? Is Will in there?” Elle whispered.

Charming, engrossed by a leather strap that ran from the back of the armor to a bolt that seemed newly driven into the wall, didn't answer. “Looks secure . . .” he muttered to himself.

Elle cleared her throat and hissed, “I asked if this is the way to the chapel,” she repeated.

Charming gave one last suspicious glance at the armor and said, “The chapel? No, we are miles from there. You, my dear Lady Rapunzel, are looking at the door to none other than the Royal Tailor.” He grinned.

“WHAT?” Elle shouted, and then slapped a hand over her own mouth. “I mean,” she said in a violent whisper, “What? My God, are you mad? We're going to miss the ceremony.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “By my reckoning, we have fully three hours before the wedding begins.” At this, there was a loud gong that reverberated through the castle. Charming frowned, “Hmmm, the noon chime. Okay, I stand corrected, two hours. Still plenty of time.”

“For what?” Elle asked in dismay.

“Why, I thought that would be obvious. We are here so the tailor can make us proper clothes.”

Liz shook her head.

Elle whispered, “Clothes! You have gone mad. Why in the world do we need clothes?”

Charming paused for an instant and the hint of a grin tugged at his mouth as he suppressed the obvious answer, but he composed himself. “If we are going to be servants to a queen, we must look the part. As I always say, clothes make the man. Of course, it goes without saying that the sentiment applies to the fairer sex as well. Now, quickly, the hall is empty.”

With that, Charming grabbed Liz's hand and pulled her across the passage. Elle followed red-­faced with anger and bewilderment. He paused for a single heartbeat to listen at the door and then, opening it, ushered both women in. He glanced up and down the corridor, shut the door softly behind them, and threw the bolt.

It was as though they had stepped inside a kaleidoscope. The room was a fractured riot of colors and textures. Bolts of cloth, rolls of ribbon and lace, boxes of beads, buttons, and bangles lay in heaps and drifts across a massive workspace that was divided into a series of rows by enormous worktables, that were themselves littered with bits of half-­finished pieces and, of course, the tools of the trade. Liz and Elle were still looking around in wonder when they realized that there was a short man, impeccably dressed but having the disheveled appearance of someone that has just completed a footrace, standing in front of one of the tables, talking to Charming.

The two men looked up from their private conference. A man they assumed was the Royal Tailor swept the women with an appraising glance and shook his head. “It will never work.”

“I'm sure it will. Dressed as servants no one will look at us twice. We can walk straight into the chapel.”

“No, you don't understand,” the Royal Tailor said with a dismissive flutter of his hands. “The Princess has forbidden any of the female servants from entering the chapel during the wedding. There will only be footmen. She says that the men will present a more aesthetic backdrop for her wedding party, but everyone knows it is because she is terrified of being upstaged. I mean, look at the bridesmaids' dresses she dreamed up.” He flicked a pointed finger at three puffs of pink standing in the corner.

“Those are the bridesmaids' dresses?” Charming choked. “But, they look . . . they look . . .”

“Like clown costumes for a group of flat-­chested fat men?” the Royal Tailor said with disdain. “Yes, I know. Worse still, the Princess made me add a pink veil. The poor ladies will look like they've been encased in a virulent pink cocoon. It is—­”

“PERFECT!” Charming said with a shout.

“What?” the Royal Tailor, Elle, and Liz all said together.

“They are hideous,” the Royal Tailor protested.

“Revolting!” spit Elle.

“Disturbing,” Liz added.

“All true, but they are perfect disguises,” Charming persisted. “With the veil, it will be impossible for anyone to know who is beneath the dress.”

The tailor cocked his head in thought.

Liz said, “You aren't suggesting that Elle and I join the wedding party. Don't you think the Princess will recognize that something is amiss when two extra bridesmaids show up to the chapel?”

The Royal Tailor shook his head. “No, not really. The number of bridesmaids in the wedding party has changed more often than Charming changes clothes.”

Liz and Elle giggled as Charming spluttered; the tailor smiled at him and winked. “Don't take that as a criticism. I love you for it. Anyway, let me explain about the bridesmaids. At first all the ladies of the court wanted to be in the wedding, and, after a fierce competition, Gwendolyn selected the six ugliest. Then the bridesmaids saw the dresses and they began to fall ill, or break limbs, or simply disappear. Last time I checked, we were down to three ladies that were either too obsequious or too stupid to flee. I doubt even Gwendolyn knows how many are going to be there, so a ­couple extra won't raise one eyebrow on her demented, but perfectly formed, head.”

“Then you'll do it?” Charming asked.

“I should refuse,” the Royal Tailor said with a frown.

Charming's face fell. “Why would you deny me this? Is it because I have been renounced?”

The Royal Tailor said with sudden passion, “Of course not, I should refuse you because to put you in pink, and these beautiful ladies into the abominations dreamed up by that cow, Gwendolyn, is a sin against fashion and good taste.”

Charming put a hand to his chest. “I understand. You know I would not request such a thing if it were not essential. But we have two hours to stop the Princess from marrying Will . . . er . . . King William, or she will define style for the next fifty years.”

The Royal Tailor shuddered and put a fluttering hand to his head. For a moment, he seemed close to fainting, then he took a few deep breaths and fanned himself. “Please, no more. I will do what I must.”

Charming put an arm around the man's shoulder. “Thank you. Now, if you have a little extra time, could you see to a few modifications on my outfit?”

“Extra time?” Elle erupted from across the room. “We now have less than two hours before Princess Gwendolyn will be Queen Gwendolyn for all time, and you are talking about extra time! There is no way he can make three outfits in two hours.”

Both Charming and the tailor shared a chuckle together. “Is she always this emotional?” the tailor said with a snort of laughter.

“Always,” Charming said, “but in this case, she has reason. She wants to marry King William herself.”

“Ahhhh,” the Royal Tailor exhaled. He crossed to Elle and bowed briefly. “My dear, I once made a hand-­stitched couture gown for the Duchess of Dearly, who is a woman of formidable dimension, in a half hour. I can fit two bridesmaid dresses and put together a footmen's uniform in my sleep. In fact, over the last week I think I have. Now, please, place yourself in my hands, and all will be well.”

The Royal Tailor was as good as his word. In less than an hour, and a little more than an hour after making several modifications to Charming's outfit—­a demi-­cape to hide his sword, a few tucks and pleats for better fit, and several other custom refinements—­the three were dressed, hideously dressed, but dressed.

Elle and Liz helped each other adjust the veils that encased the top-­third of their bodies with matching giggles. But the moment their costumes were complete, Elle turned to Charming, who was evaluating himself critically in the full-­length mirror. “Now what?”

“Well, I think if we tried a slightly more subdued shade of pink, or something with more of a sheen, we might have something here.”

“No!” said Elle.

“Actually, I think he has a point,” the Royal Tailor said between pursed lips as he studied Charming's behind in the tight-­fitting breeches.

“No,” she said again. “I mean what do we do now to save Will? Remember him? Liz's brother, the man who is going to be married in less than an hour?”

Charming tore his gaze away from the mirror. “We walk down to the chapel and wait for the opportune moment to seize the day and rescue poor King William, and the Kingdom of Royaume itself, from the Princess.”

“That's it?” she asked incredulously.

He nodded. “Yes. With those dresses and my uniform, no one will question us.”

Elle spluttered about needing more of a plan, but Liz shrugged her shoulders. “It sounds reasonable, Elle. We won't know what the Princess has planned until we get down there and see for ourselves.”

Charming embraced the Royal Tailor and smiled. “Thank you, I hope to see you again.”

“And I you, Edward Charming, but next time in something blue.”

“Agreed. Adieu, dear friend! You have my thanks!”

The three stepped out of the door and right into a group of nobles. After untangling the ladies dresses, there was a beat of confusion in which the nobles stared uncomfortably at each other and Charming. Elle took a step forward so that Charming was beside her and kicked him surreptitiously in the shin. “Bow!” she whispered from beneath her veil.

Through teeth gritted in pain, Charming executed a shallow bow. Elle made a sweeping curtsy that was half-­heartedly copied by Liz, and answered by bows and curtsies from the other nobles. From beneath Elle's veil came an unrecognizably shrill voice. “Excuse us, Duchess and Duke Faircourt, Lady Greenleaf. We must make haste to the chapel. Footman, lead on.”

Charming bowed again and walked quickly down the hall and away from the party of still-­murmuring courtiers. Elle and Liz puffed to keep up. Finally, they turned a corner and Liz hissed, “Edward, slow down! ­People will find it highly suspicious if they see two bridesmaids and a footman sprinting through the halls of the castle.”

“Right, sorry,” he said, grabbing his wounded side and gasping for breath. “I guess I panicked a little. I've known Lady Greenleaf since I was five, and the Duchess of Faircourt and I, well, we're familiar.”

Liz stroked his cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, just fine,” he said with a broad smile that was ruined only by the beads of sweet on his brow.

She tenderly wiped his forehead dry and then gave him a playful slap. “We shall talk about your ‘familiarity' with the Duchess some other time. For now get us safely, and slowly, to the chapel.”

He bowed as gracefully as his body would allow and smiled. “As the Lady commands.” Then he turned on his heel and, at a stately pace, led the women through the castle and the growing crowds of nobles and courtiers to the sanctuary of the ancient chapel of Castle White.

 

Chapter 10

Or Forever Hold Your Peace

IN A SMALL,
sunlit chamber behind the chapel, Princess Gwendolyn stood alone, frowning at the image in a large gilt-­framed looking glass. The woman in the mirror was a vision. The dress she was wearing was not fairy made, but it could have been. It was a delicate affair of lace and silk layered like the petals of a flower. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate coif of spirals and waves and curls that seemed lighter than air. From head to toe, jewels sparkled here and there, drawing in the light and casting it out like stars.

And yet, Gwendolyn was not happy.

Something wasn't right. Around her, the shadow handmaidens swirled, straightening her veil here, fixing a loose strand of hair there. Inside her head, other minds—­Will's, Rupert's, the priest's and dozens of others, crowded for attention. They would give her no peace, no rest. At one time either or both would have driven her to distraction, but she was used to them by now: the feel of the cold shadow hands, the clamor of other ­people's thoughts. It was the woman in the mirror that disturbed her. She saw a sad woman with soulful eyes, and it was not her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Gwendolyn asked the phantasm.

Don't you recognize me
? came the answer in a voice that was as soft as the whispered wind.

Gwendolyn stared into the glass and gasped. “Rosslyn?”

She grasped for the glass ball partially hidden among the flowers of her wedding bouquet and shook it. “Fairy, if it is you conjuring this image . . .”

The orb swirled with a jumble of rapidly flickering and confused images, but the light of the pixie shone only dimly. A weak, bitter voice floated through the air to her: “
Thou thinkest much of me, if thou believes that I canst bend the wills of thy groom, thy King, thy priest, and a score more so that thee can control them and still defy thee. Thy vision is thine alone, Mistress. Live it thyself and leave me in peace.
”

Though hateful, the words rang true. In disgust, she dropped the bouquet on the vanity.

Gwenie
? came the spectral voice from the mirror.

It was a nickname only her sister had called her. Gwendolyn felt her hair rise and her flesh crawl. She turned slowly back to the mirror. There stood Rosslyn, dressed for her wedding, the wedding that she never had a chance to celebrate. Gwendolyn's legs gave out and she fell to her knees. Behind the glass, Rosslyn mirrored the movement so that they knelt face-­to-­face.

Why did you do it?

Gwendolyn sobbed. “You can't think it was on purpose, I only meant . . .”

The image in the mirror was crying as well, tears of silvered water running down her face.
Meant what? To steal my love?

“No! It is just that I—­”

Yes, Gwenie?

Gwendolyn could not bring herself to look into her sister's eyes, so she stared down at her white-­gloved hands. “I remember that day. I ran into the forest and called for the fairy. I thought she was my magical godmother. I thought she wanted to help me. You were going to marry Rupert, and you didn't love him, not like I did. When I traveled here with you, attending you, hovering in the background, I saw everything. You just wanted the kingdom. You wanted Castle White. I wanted Rupert to be my prince. I had dreams, Rosslyn, my dreams. All I did was wish. I wished that you would not marry Rupert, that I would be with my true love, and that I would be a princess remembered like no other.” Gwendolyn looked up into her sister's eyes. “I swear, I did not mean for you to die.”

I know you did not mean it
, the voice said sadly,
but I did die. Your wishes killed me, Gwenie, and now you are wishing again to satisfy your desire for the Crown. You must put a stop to this madness.

“But this time is different,” she pleaded.

Why Gwenie? Why is this different?

“Before I relied on the fairy, and I was selfish and full of pride. But I have changed.” She clasped her hands in front of her, begging. “While I was locked away with the dragon, I had time to think, to dream, about what I would do to make things right. I realized that the only way I could redress my wrongs would be to reclaim everything that I had lost with the force of my own will. I promised myself that I would marry the King, and I would claim the throne that was meant for you, and I would have the wedding and the love I . . . We lost to the fairy's curse. Rosslyn, I am doing this for us. I'm doing it for you.”

You are doing this for me, Gwenie?

“For you, Rosslyn. I swear it.”

Her sister's piercing green eyes bore into her.
Then stop, Gwenie. Stop before it is too late. You have lost yourself in hatred and insanity. It will not bring me back, and it will destroy you.

Gwendolyn shook her head throughout her sister's speech—­“No, no, no, no, no. This one last thing and all the wrongs we have suffered will be avenged.”

Gwenie, I can understand and forgive your anger toward the fairy and the King, and even the Prince, but these things that you have done, they aren't you. You never wanted to hurt anyone.
She gave a tender, sad smile.
Even me, dear sister. Can't you see what this magic is doing to you? It is driving you mad. You don't even look yourself. You look like a wraith—­so tired and haunted. Stop this now.”

“No!” she shouted. “I've come too far. I am so close to my happy ending.”

She began to pace back and forth in front of the mirror, her sister following her movements in silence behind the glass. “Maybe I'm not doing it only for you. Maybe I am doing this for me. But don't I deserve it? For everything that has been done to me. For all the years I lived in silent guilt unable to make amends to you. For all the torment I suffered at the hands of the fairy. For being abandoned by the man I loved.”

She stopped and once again faced the mirrored image of Rosslyn. “I have waited a lifetime to be saved. I have waited patiently for my knight to come and slay my dragon. And, what did he do? He left me to rot. I will not wait anymore. I will not leave anything to fate or chance. I have been given . . . no, I have taken the power to set things right, and I am going to use this power, this magic.”

Revenge will not bring you the peace you seek, Gwenie. Only true love can do that.

The Princess felt her whole body stiffen in rage. “True love? You speak to me of true love? You who would have married a man that you half-­despised . . .”

This time the voice was angry and it roared in her ears.
I MAY NOT HAVE LOVED RUPERT AS YOU DID, BUT I DID LOVE HIM
.

Gwendolyn shuffled back from the mirror.

Her sister's voice softened and whispered now, soothing or trying to sooth.
You saw only what you wanted to see, Gwen. You admitted into your heart only the good things about him. I loved him for the man he was and is. A man, like any other, that has flaws and weaknesses and vices, and, yes, I made fun of him for those. Yours was the love of youth—­pure and blind—­mine was the love of truth—­real and accepting. I know you do not understand, you were, you are, still so young, Gwenie.

“Stop saying that,” Gwendolyn shouted. “You may have been older then, but I am older now. I have lived and suffered like you never did, and I escaped. And I will marry William and we will be happy.”

A cloud came over her sister's face. Her eyes grew stern and her voice hard.
Believe what you will of me
,
but know, Gwendolyn Mostfair, that what you are doing is wrong, and the strength of your convictions cannot make it right
.

Gwendolyn felt the anger rising in her blood. She stood, and her sister stood with her, and the two siblings glared at each other across the barrier of the glass. “I know true love, Rosslyn, and this wedding will prove it. If William and I were not meant to be, then the curse would not allow it. If this is not true love, then how did I cast off the fairy's magic? If this is not true love, then I would still be locked in that accursed spell—­half dead.”

The sadness came back to the face in the mirror and the voice that spoke was full of grief.
If the spell is broken, if the curse is lifted, then why do you still fear the fairy? If you are free, then cast her and her power away.

Gwendolyn rose and grabbed the glittering ball in her hands. As she was about dash it to the ground, she stopped and placed the fairy ball back on the table in its cradle of flowers. “No. Not until I am queen. Not until I have shown the fairy that I have won.”

The Princess looked back up and her sister's eyes were full of pity.
Oh, Gwenie, I am sorry, I did not know that you were still lost in a dream.

“NO I AM NOT!” she screamed.

In a fit of anger, Gwendolyn pushed the mirror onto the hard stone floor. It splintered and cracked, and, for a moment, the image of Rosslyn's sorrowful face was duplicated in each of the hundreds of fractured facets. Gwendolyn kneeled to the floor again and a hundred voices, including her own, whispered, “I am sorry.”

There was a knock at the door, and nervous voice called out, “Princess Gwendolyn, are you all right?”

The minds that she had been keeping at bay came crowding back in on her thoughts. The shadows that had vanished during her talk with Rosslyn now crowded about, pawing at her. The images of Rosslyn wavered and disappeared, and Gwendolyn found that she was kneeling on the cold stones of the little room staring down now at her own tear-­streaked face in the broken glass pieces. She searched for the sad face of her sister in the shattered panes. But Rosslyn was gone. All that remained was Gwendolyn—­a haggard, wan, and haunted Gwendolyn, repeated over and over.

“It was nothing,” she whispered to herself. “Just an illusion, a trick of the light, and the jitters of a new bride.”

“Your Highness? Are you there?”

Her head radiated with pain, and she put a hand to her temple in an attempt to soothe it. She frowned at the closed door and shouted harshly, “OF COURSE, I'M HERE, YOU IDIOT. Where else would I be? What do you want?”

“I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness,” came the frightened reply. “Your Highness, I've come to tell you that the guests have assembled. All is in readiness.”

The guests have assembled.
The pain in her head was momentarily forgotten. She rose to her feet and straightened her dress.
All is in readiness.
She felt a cold confidence fill her body; and when she spoke, it was with the authority that only absolute certainty can provide: “Very well, tell the musicians to begin my march.”

She looked back down into the shattered mirror. Her face was a ruin. Her cheeks were sunken and white from lack of food. Her eyes were haunted from lack of sleep. Her face was heavily lined as though the shadows had hidden themselves there. For a moment, her confidence wavered, and she felt the souls she had enthralled pushing back at their bonds, but then she heard her wedding march—­the notes rolling and echoing through the stone chapel like a force of nature.

It is time
, the cold and confident voice in her head said.
Nothing can stop us.

“I can't be seen like this,” she whispered in horror and growing uncertainty. “They will know.”

Don't worry
, the voice reassured her,
nobody will see you. They will see only a bride
. Her shaking hand lowered the veil into place, obscuring her face and all the evidence of her grief and doubt and madness.
By the time we are revealed, we will be Queen.

Beneath the veil, she felt herself smile. The pain in her head was still there, but it was a remote thing and the voices were gone. The cold bodies of the shadow ­people fluttered about her face, but were obscured by the layers of white cloth. She gathered her bouquet with the fairy glass into her arms, and, fully encased in her lace and silk armor, she strode through the door to the waiting chapel beyond.

CHARMING STOOD AGAINST
the wall of the chapel just behind the bridesmaids, one in a row of dozens of fit young men dressed in identical pink uniforms. He was supposed to be watching the gilt door where Gwendolyn would eventually emerge, but he couldn't stop himself from glancing at the line of bridesmaids, studying with particular intensity the two at the end. He was worried about Liz and Elle. The ladies were tense, and Elle had nearly rushed to Will when he and Charming's father marched rigidly to take their place on the chapel's raised dais, next to an expressionless priest. Only a restraining hand, and a hissed “we must wait until the moment is right” had kept her from ruining their disguises.

The notes of the wedding march interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head in time to see light flood through the chapel doors, highlighting the golden rug and mingling with the towering flower arrangements that lined the central aisle. Along with the rays of sunlight came the strong smell of nutmeg, and Charming had enough time to consider that it was an odd choice for a wedding as a phalanx of elfin girls came through the door, dancing with cold perfection and tossing handfuls of rose petals into the air about them. Close on their heels came a quartet of identically stone-­faced little boys. Each carried a satin pillow with a jeweled ring. When the children reached their positions on the dais, the music swelled. A massive shadow filled the doorway. Princess Gwendolyn, in a veiled dress that could only be described as epic, strode down the aisle with grace, a glowing bouquet held in her arms. Charming frowned at the shining glass ball half-­hidden among the flowers.
There is the source of her power.

He heard Elle hiss from the far end of the line, “Now?”

He leaned slightly over and whispered, “Not yet. We must wait for the right moment.”