Enchanted (22 page)

“Tonight,” said Mama, to Sunday’s astonishment. “Friday will have her hands full today making a brand-new dress for Saturday. The gods know how we’re going to move her around the castle with that leg.”

Sunday remembered a wheeled chair resting near a bed of small white flowers in the garden. “We’ll find a way. What about Wednesday’s wedding dress?”

“Wednesday stayed at the castle,” said Mama. “Monday is taking care of her there.”

“Monday.”

“I’ve made my peace with her, fool girl,” said Mama, though Sunday wasn’t sure if the “fool girl” Mama referred to was Monday or herself. “I have a daughter about to become queen. Holding the rank and title of princess against my other daughter seems trivial.” Mama took Sunday’s hands in hers. “Or
daughters
,” she added.

“You mean me,” said Sunday.

“I saw the way you and the prince looked at each other that first dance,” said Mama, “as did everyone else in that room, before his father’s ridiculously dramatic display erased their memories. I’ve seen that look before. It was a look your father and I shared, once upon a time.”

“Do you still?” Sunday asked desperately. “Do you still look at each other like you once did, back at the beginning of the story, when everything was a question you were too afraid to find the answer to?”

“If you can pull yourself away from your own ridiculous drama, you’ll find out.” She motioned to the dress in the trunk. “Go on.”

Sunday lifted the dress by the shoulders. It smelled magically of honeysuckle and sunshine, not thirteen years of storage. Aunt Joy’s gift had not saved her sister; Tuesday’s death must have been one of those unstoppable events. As with Jack, so much in the world had hinged upon Tuesday’s life, and the ending of it.

“Are you sure?” Sunday asked her mother.

“What do you mean am I sure? I said so, didn’t I? You know I mean what I say, whether I like it or not,” she scoffed. “The dress is yours, Sunday.”

It was always meant to be hers. Sunday saw that now. Clever Aunt Joy. It wasn’t just Monday with whom Mama meant to make peace. She had to make peace with her own powers.

Seven for a secret never to be told.
Seven Woodcutter had stopped having children after seven daughters, just as she’d said. She had called Trix family. She had announced that one of her daughters would be engaged by the end of the week. She had cursed those elfin red shoes of Tuesday’s to never wear out and doomed her own daughter to death.

Not knowing Grumble’s fate was hard enough. Sunday couldn’t imagine having to live with the guilt of killing your own daughter. “Monday said I looked like her,” said Sunday. “If my putting this dress on causes you pain, I won’t do it.”

“Everything happens for a reason,” Mama said. “I was the reason your sister died, plain and simple. I have regretted those words every day since.” She sat down on the edge of her bed, as if every syllable she spoke held a weight she was long tired of carrying. “I miss her,” she admitted. “I miss them both. I didn’t realize how much until I saw Monday again.” Mama stroked Sunday’s cheek. “Your resemblance to Tuesday is the gods’ way of giving me back, in some small part, a piece of the daughter I never got to know. I have to accept that and appreciate it.” She dropped her hand. “I can’t do that if I push you away, too.”

Sunday hugged her mother tightly. “I love you so much, Mama,” she said. “No matter how hard you push.”

Seven Woodcutter put her arms awkwardly around her youngest daughter. “I love you, too, Sunday. No matter what happens.”

For once, Mama didn’t have to say it for Sunday to know it was true.

***

Sunday found Papa in the back garden. He was whittling a birch branch to nothing and watching the sun spin the clouds into pink candy. She sat down beside him without a word. Her white pigeons cooed softly in the holly tree beside them. The wind barely ruffled the grass below; the sky barely moved above. Mama would be calling for her any minute, but she needed something. Finally, her father gave it to her.

“There was once a beautiful young girl,” he said. The breeze and the birds and the sound of his blade on the branch blended into a song.

“Was she the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world?” asked Sunday.

“Yes,” said Papa, “but that’s another story. So this beautiful young girl—”

“Was her name Simone?”

“Her name was Candelaria,” said Papa, “but that’s another story. Candelaria had a cat—”

“Was it a smart cat?”

“Cats are neither smart nor dumb. They are just cats. And being cats, they have an extraordinarily good sense of balance.”

“That they do.”

“Which is why Candelaria was caught by surprise the day she saw her cat fall and, quite ungracefully, not land on its feet.”

“Was it hurt?”

“Only its pride. Cats possess even more pride than balance. ‘If you promise to never share what you have seen here today,’ said the cat—”

“Cats can talk?”

“When they choose to,” said Papa, “but that’s another story. ‘If you promise to never share what you have seen,’ the cat said to Candelaria, ‘then I will grant you one wish.’ ”

“Did she wish for a unicorn?”

Papa held up a finger. “Being given this wish was a miracle,” he said, “for Candelaria’s father was deathly ill.”

“Did he have a cough?” asked Sunday. “And the chills?

“A cough and the chills and bumps and a rash and a fever and black toes and a gremlin sitting on his chest.”

“That’s not good,” said Sunday.

“They had not the slightest hope. But Candelaria now had a wish.”

“Did Candelaria wish for her papa to be saved?”

“No,” said Papa. “She wished for a unicorn.”

“Ah.” Sunday curled her toes into the cool wood of the bench and rested her chin upon her knees. Not quite the ending she had hoped for, but for that brief time during the telling, they had been just Sunday and her papa, and nobody else. Just like the story, their time was now over, their ending bittersweet. Unless...“What color was her unicorn?” asked Sunday.

“Oh, she didn’t get a unicorn,” said Papa.

“She didn’t?”

Papa turned to her, and that smile Sunday had missed so much of late suddenly appeared on his face. She almost cried aloud with relief and happiness. “Of course not,” he said. “She got another cat.”

“Another cat?”

“Yes indeed,” said Papa. “For the only things in this life more selfish than beautiful little girls are cats.”

Sunday wrung her hands. “I’m so sorry, Papa,” she said, her voice choked with invisible tears. “I am so very sorry that we never had a cat.”

Papa’s bark of laughter startled the birds, who scolded him properly, and he pulled Sunday to him in a hug so wonderful that she didn’t mind her scrapes and bruises. “I don’t want this nonsense to come between me and my little girl.”

“Neither do I, Papa.”

He tossed the useless branch away and sheathed his knife. “I still don’t like him, though.”

“The prince?”

Papa scowled. “Or his father. Just because you are the king and you can get everything you command doesn’t mean you should.”

“He did
ask
Wednesday for her hand,” said Sunday, “or so I’m told.”

“Yes,” said Papa. “But he didn’t ask me.”

No, he hadn’t. But he was the king. He didn’t have to. And that was the point. Sunday worried then that the sins of the father would be visited upon his son as well. “And what about the prince?” she asked casually.

“He hasn’t asked me anything yet,” said Papa. “But I suspect he hasn’t asked you anything yet either.”

“No,” said Sunday. “He hasn’t.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” said Papa. “If you are ... don’t.” Sunday put her chin back on her knees. Parents always told their children not to worry about things. “If you’d like, I’ll do my best to reserve judgment until I’ve met your prince.”

Her prince. The words felt like a warm breeze.
Her prince.
“I think that’s wise,” she said. And then, “Yes, I would like that.”

Papa leaned back on the bench with his arm around Sunday; she snuggled into the shoulder that had been molded over the years to exactly fit a daughter’s head. “So tell me about this fellow I haven’t met yet.”

“He makes me laugh,” said Sunday.

“I
make you laugh,” said Papa.

“As much as I hate the crowds and the costumes,” she said, “I feel strangely comfortable around him.”

Papa harrumphed. “That’s my job, too.”

“He seems to go out of his way to seek me out,” she said. “He worries about my mood and my well-being. He seems to genuinely care about me. Why would he do that, Papa? He doesn’t even know me.”

Her father sighed. “My dearest Sunday,” he said, “I wasn’t scared of losing you until that last part.”

“You’ll never lose me, Papa.”

Mama yelled for her from deep inside the house.

“See?” he said. “Your mother’s trying to spirit you away

“We probably should get ready. The royal carriages will be coming for us.” She tried to stand up, but her father squeezed her tighter.

“The royal carriages will wait,” said Papa. “We could sit here until tomorrow and the royal carriages would wait.”

“But Mama will not.” Sunday heard her mother call once more, this time for them both, and louder.

“I know that, little dove.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of twilight. “I also know that there’s a reason they say the third times the charm.”

And so they remained there, in guiltless peace, until Mama called again.

T
HE WHIP SLICED
into his back. The barbed end of the leather came away with bits of his flesh, his blood, and his pride. Was this a dream? Was it a memory? Either way, it hurt like hell.

“Again,” Rumbold said. His wrists were raw from pulling at the rope that bound him to the ship’s mast. The captain had ordered ten lashes; he’d counted only seven. “Again!” he yelled to the black giant who stood behind him like a late-afternoon shadow, but no more came.

The captain slid into Rumbold’s blurry field of vision. “You
want
him to hit you?”

“I know the punishment for disobedience. I disobeyed you. I should be punished the same as any man.”

“Any man wouldn’t have disobeyed my order in the first place.”

“I am not any man.” Sweat stung his eyes, and the salt from the spray stung his back. He basked in the pain. “But I mean to be reprimanded as such.”

The captain knew who he was, but Rumbold was not sure how far down the ranks this knowledge had spread. “Nor do you
act
like any man.” She brandished her knife and sawed through his bonds. “You ask too much expecting me to treat you as one. Besides,” she whispered, “this will be a greater punishment to you than any physical torture I could ask Mister Jolicoeur to exact.”

She was right. It burned Rumbold more to think that he was still being singled out and treated differently because of who he was. Well, if the captain would not willingly finish carrying out the prescribed punishment, he would force her to. Heedless of the raw, broken skin at his wrists, he captured her waist and kissed her full on the mouth. She tasted of fresh air and apples. The men hooted and hollered. She kicked him in the groin and sent him crashing to his knees on the deck before her.

Rumbold heard the first mate snap the whip in his giant hands. Now, he thought. Now she would punish him properly.

Instead, she laughed at him. Her brown eyes and red-gold hair sparkled with sunlight, freckles sprinkled like spice across her nose. “So,” said the captain, “what do you suggest we do with this one?”

“Make him walk the plank,” one man suggested.

“Keelhaul him,” said another.

“Make him swab the deck,” offered the man currently swabbing.

“I think we should promote him,” said the Pirate King.

“So do I,” said the captain. “He’s a complete pain in my neck, but he’s got spirit.”

“If anyone should be fond of that particular asset, it’s you, my beloved,” said the Pirate King.

“Plus, he’s not a terrible kisser,” said the captain.

“Keelhaul him!” cried the Pirate King.

“Stand him up,” said the captain. The giant Jolicoeur helped Rumbold to his feet without touching the fresh wounds on his back. The captain slid her knife beneath his jaw. “You are lucky, boy,” she said. “I should split you open, cut out that silver tongue of yours, melt it down, and buy myself some pretties. Unfortunately, I am bound to keep you in one piece. So, as you are nothing but trouble, then ‘Trouble’ it is.” She sliced a “T” deep into the meat of his left upper arm.

The actual cut did not hurt as much when it happened as it did when the first mate took up the swabbie’s pail and doused him in salt water. Rumbold screamed, shook, and defiantly refused to fall to his knees before her again. The captain noticed. “Oh, I do like you,” she said. “Far more than I should.”

“Just remember that you’re mine,” said the Pirate King.

“That I am, beloved,” said the captain. “Forever and a day, until the seas dry up and there are no more ships to plunder.” She kissed her husband lightly, and then turned to Rumbold. “T for Trouble,” she said. “And T for Thursday. You are not just any man now, Prince. You are family.”

Rumbold smiled. “Yes, Captain.”

***

Rumbold’s chamber door opened, and Erik entered with a flourish. “May I announce His Grace Velius Morana, Duke of Ouch-More.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, you twit.” Velius slapped the back of Erik’s ginger head.

“Au contraire
” said Erik. “There are many things wrong with you. A hangover just isn’t one of them.” He sat in one of the velvet-covered chairs and poured himself a glass of water. “Your fey cousin here has the miraculous ability to hold his liquor—and mine, and yours, and the king’s, and half the country’s, I expect.”

Velius waved a hand. He really did look no worse for the wear, despite his pitiful episode in the courtyard the previous evening. Rumbold hated him a little for that. The prince was proud merely to be eating solid food.

His dreams had become more vivid, though, and more draining. He pulled down the left collar of his nightshirt and ran his hand over the skin of his unblemished arm. It was hard to tell anymore which were dreams and which were memories and which were both. At least he hadn’t woken up covered in soot on the floor again.