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"I believe it's customary to knock before you kick the door in,"

a voice said.

Then the door slammed behind me and I was staring up into the face of a young man I had never seen before.

His eyes were the same color as the branches of the evergreens, and were flecked with gold in a way that reminded me instantly of Oswald. Looking up into them was like gazing up into the Forests canopy with the sun dappling down. His hair was muddy brown. He looked exasperated with me, to say the least.

"I didn't think anyone was here," I gasped. “I didn't think people lived in la Foret. If I've hurt your home, I'm sorry."

"Yes, well," he said after a moment. He leaned back and stopped looming over me. "I suppose your haste was understandable. The storm really is remarkable. I've never seen such hailstones, have you?"

At this, he scurried to one of the windows and began to peer out, his irritation with me apparently completely forgotten. The look on his face was such a strange combination of studiousness and excitement, I half expected him to start making notes. A moment later, to my amazement, he pulled a quill, ink, and a small leather-bound book out of a knapsack at his feet, and did just that, not noticing when he dripped ink down the front of his shirt.

I had seen such hailstones, of course, and ones that were even larger. But since my unexpected companion seemed so excited about the size of the ones currently hurtling through the trees and thundering on the roof, I decided to keep quiet about it. At least one of us was enjoying the current situation. It seemed a shame to spoil it.

"Oh, and by the way, I don't live here," he went on. He made a notation in his book, then pressed his nose against the glass. I feared he'd decide to open the window in another moment. "This isn't my home. I've come to the Forest on a great quest."

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He spoke those last two words as if they should be spelled entirely with capital letters, punctuating them by shutting his book with a snap. I tried in vain to think of a suitable reply.

"That's nice," I finally said.

He turned back then, his expression slightly crestfallen, and I realized he'd probably expected me to ask him what it was. A thing I most likely would have done, if I hadn't suddenly been feeling so out of sorts. It had taken all the courage I possessed to enter la Foret, or at the very least, a whole lot of courage. While I hadn't been sure what to expect, I had expected to face it on my own. I might even have been looking forward to it, in a funny sort of way. A test of my inner strength, or something like that.

Of my ability to be brave, to do what was right, even if that meant hardship and sacrifice.

Now here I was, in a cottage that shouldn't be there, with a companion who viewed a hailstorm as an opportunity for note-taking, claimed to be on a great quest, and yet somehow managed to look as if he might have trouble pulling on his boots in the morning. Not at all what I'd expected, to say the least.

Oh, for heaven's sake, Aurore, I chastised myself as I climbed soggily to my feet. Oswald is right about you. You really are the most contrary girl alive. Anybody else would be happy to have discovered they're not alone, but not you. No, you're actually feeling cross because you haven't ended up all by yourself.

"1 don't suppose you're any good at fire building, are you?"

the young man inquired suddenly. I realized then that, in spite of his enthusiasm for the hail, he was just as wet as I was.

“I did my best, but the truth is, I'm not very good at practical things. My hands never seem to know what to do, no matter how often they've been told how. I'm much more of a scholar, really."

He attempted a cajoling smile. "You know, brains over brawn?"

“As long as my flint didn't get wet," I answered, and I unfastened my cloak and shook it out. It was heavy with water, but it had done its work well, for beneath it my knapsack was dry. I hung the cloak on a peg near the door, then turned, hands on hips, to take stock of the cottage.

Whoever had built it had definitely known what they were doing. The roof didn't leak. The fireplace stood in the cottage's very center, so that all the heat it generated would be trapped 72

inside. I could see firewood stacked neatly to one side of the hearth, with a basket of kindling nearby.

"Someone must live here," I said finally. "It's too well kept to have been abandoned."

"I've been thinking the same thing." The young man nodded.

"I hope whoever lives here isn't getting too wet."

"And that they don't mind that we came here to get dry. Well, let's see what I can do." I moved toward the fireplace, then stopped. Resting in front of it was something I hadn't noticed before. A sickly green rug with bumps as big as the coils of giant snakes.

"You'll want to keep an eye on that rug," my companion advised. "I walked across it when I first got here and it almost pitched me flat on my face. It seems to have a mind of its own."

But that's not possible, I thought. I knew where this rug was, or at least I knew where it belonged. Papa kept it in his study. I'd made it for him as a birthday gift shortly after I'd turned nine.

"Thanks for the warning," I said.

Carefully, I lifted the rug and moved it to one side. No doubt there was an explanation for its presence here, but it wouldn't do much good to think about it. I was unlikely to figure out what it was. Instead I concentrated on fire-building, a thing I was good at. The wood was well seasoned. It caught at once, and I soon had a bright blaze going.

"Oh, well done!" the young man exclaimed, and he put away his writing supplies and knelt down at my side. We stayed that way for a moment, both of us warming our hands. If it bothered him that it had taken me so little time to perform a task he'd claimed had defeated him, he didn't let it show. I could feel my irritation begin to fade away. It's hard to be cross with someone who isn't cross back, particularly when you're safe and warm in the bargain.

"What's your name?" I asked.

To my surprise, he reddened, as if my everyday question was cause for embarrassment. "I was afraid you were going to ask me that," he said. "Sooner or later, every new person I meet does. I don't suppose you'd like to take three guesses and choose the one you like the best?" He must have seen the astonished look on my face, because almost at once he said: "No, I didn't 73

think so. Very well, if you must know, I'm called Prince Ironheart."

"What's wrong with that?" I asked. "It's a fine name. Strong and true."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid it's also something of a joke," he confessed. "I was dubbed that by my older brother in a moment of extreme annoyance. I mentioned I'm not very clever with my hands, didn't I? The truth is, I'm often downright clumsy. I once managed to drop his favorite sword in a way that caused it to splinter into exactly seven shards, after which it took the same number of days to put it back together again. As a matter of fact..."

He settled down cross-legged on the floor and his tone grew hushed and confidential, as if he was preparing to tell me a bedtime story.

"It was really quite a remarkable feat, if you stop to think about it. The royal mathematician and I did some computations later, and discovered that the odds against such a thing occurring were well over one in a hundred thousand. But it was after this that my brother started calling me Ironheart. He said my heart would have to be strong, since my arms so obviously aren't."

All of a sudden, I discovered I was liking Ironheart quite a bit better than I'd expected to, a thing I'm pretty sure had to do with a feeling of kinship inspired by the word clumsy.

"What's his name?" I asked. "Prince Smart-mouth?"

"No," Ironheart answered, his tone slightly troubled. "Actually, it's Prince Valiant. It suits him, which makes it even worse."

I settled down cross-legged myself and gave his knee a reassuring pat. "I don't think I like him."

"Oh, but you would," protested Ironheart. "Everybody does, except, perhaps, for Grandfather. Just between you and me, Grand-pere thinks that Valiant is something of a prig. He told me so on the eighth day. You know—the one on which the incident with the sword could finally be considered over."

I laughed, my earlier irritation with his presence now completely forgotten. "I know I like your grandfather. But surely you must have a given name. A birth or christening name that you could use instead."

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"Of course I do," he said. "It's Charles. But somehow, Ironheart just seemed to stick. I've grown so accustomed to it, if you called me Charles I'd probably look over my shoulder to see who was behind me."

"Well, I only have one name," I said. "And it's Aurore."

His expression brightened. "I wondered if it would be that. Or something like it. The second you took your cloak off, I was reminded of the sun coming up. And Aurore means of the dawn doesn't it? I think it must be your hair. All that gold."

"You're right," I answered, resisting an impulse to pull my fingers through it to see if there were any snarls. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment to think about the way I looked. "Without it, I would have ended up named for my grandmother."

"What was her name?"

"Henriette-Hortense."

"Oh dear," Ironheart said involuntarily, then blushed. "That was rude, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I said. "I agree entirely."

"Still," he said after a moment. "Even Henriette-Hortense is a proper name, not a joke like Ironheart. It's awful to know people are laughing at you, day in and day out."

Once again, he reminded me of Oswald. That was how his nickname of Prince Charming had gotten started, before he'd decided to make it his own.

"Why don't you make it true?" I asked."Live up to your nickname and put them all to shame. Become Ironheart."

"How on earth would I do that?"

"You're the one with the big brain," I said. "Can't you figure something out?"

"I suppose I could," he said, though now his voice was doubtful. "I hadn't really considered that approach before. I'll have to think about it."

"What about this quest of yours? That should offer plenty of opportunities, don't you think?"

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "You're absolutely right! I wonder . . ." He broke off, his expression thoughtful.

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"What is the quest, anyway?" I said, then had a terrible thought. "Not slaying a dragon, I hope."

"Oh, no," Ironheart replied at once. "Nothing like that." He paused. "Or, at least, I don't think so. There aren't a lot of details to go on, other than the basic ones. I mean, nobody knows much about the Forest, so there are a lot of unknowns."

"The quest," I prompted.

"Oh, yes. Well, it's really quite simple," he replied. "There's a beautiful princess sleeping in the heart of the Forest. I'm going to find her and wake her up."

It was a good thing I was already sitting down, because if I hadn't been, I'd have probably fallen over.

"What?"

"There's a beautiful princess sleeping in the heart of the forest," Ironheart repeated obligingly. "I'm going to find her and wake her up."

"With what? The kiss of true love?"

Ironheart's green eyes grew enormous. "Wait a minute," he said. "How did you know?"

I put my head down in my hands. This can't be happening.

It just can't be, I thought. Somehow, some version of my story had gotten all mixed up. Turned around. In fact, it had gotten so confused that I was actually in the same room with someone who wanted to come and rescue me from something that hadn't even happened yet.

Just breathe deeply, Aurore, I told myself. Calm down. He can't be talking about you. He said the princess was beautiful, or had you forgotten? That would certainly seem to rule you out. Nobody thought that I was beautiful, with the possible exception of Nurse and Papa. Perhaps the other countries bordering la Foret had their own tales to account for its strangeness.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Confusion flickered across Ironheart s face. "How do I know what?"

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"How do you know there's a beautiful princess sleeping in the heart of the Forest?"

His expression cleared at once. "Oh, that. That's easy.

Because Grand-pere told me so. He's been telling me stories about her for as long as I can remember."

"Well how does he know, then?" I persisted."How can he be so sure she's there? Has he seen her for himself?"

"Of course not!" Ironheart exclaimed. "Nobody goes into the Forest. It's been forbidden for time out of mind."

This was getting worse by the minute. "But—," I began.

Ironheart held up a hand, and I fell silent. "Do you know anyone you always believe?" he inquired. "Someone you trust with your heart, even though your mind occasionally warns you they might be pulling your leg?"

"I do, in fact," I replied, thinking once again of Oswald.

"Well, there you have it. That's what Grand-pere is like. I don't know how he knows the story of the Sleeping Beauty. I just know I believe that he does."

He gazed into the fire for a moment.