A Grimm Curse: A Grimm Tales Novella (Volume 3) (2 page)

Chapter
2

“How am I a talking frog?”

CYNTHIA STOPPED TO TIE ON the muddy scarf to hide her hair. Picking dirt out of her scalp was better than drawing attention to herself. The incident with the frog had made her late and Coriander was sure to make her pay.

“Sorry.” She whispered an apology to the frog. “I’ll get you in water as soon as I can.” She could feel the little creature’s heart drumming against her palm, but it had been still as stone since she’d caught it.

She slipped the extra packet of hair dye into one pocket, the frog into the other and went to face the music.

She passed Portia in the hallway outside Coriander’s door. The rotund girl clutched an apple fritter in one hand and the latest copy of
Enchantment!
magazine in the other. Both her stepsisters were infatuated with Prince Wilhelm and the tabloid provided them with plenty of fodder.

“Someone’s in
tr-ou-ble
,” she sang under her breath, brushing by Cynthia as she raised her hand to knock.

Might as well get it over with.

Cynthia gave the door a sharp rap and pushed it open at Coriander’s icy, “Come in.”

Lady Wellington and Coriander both had glacial glares for her as she opened the door. More than ever, Cynthia wished she hadn’t stopped and bothered with the frog.

“What have you been doing?” Coriander ran a critical eye over Cynthia and wrinkled her nose. “You are covered in mud. Is this why it took you over
forty minutes
to do a simple errand?”

“I dropped my scarf in a puddle.” Cynthia spoke to her feet.

Lady Wellington, hands on her hips, tapped one lacquered nail on her rhinestone-studded belt. “I can see what you’re talking about, kitten. Clearly we’ve been lax
with her
.”

“I think her room needs to be searched for more books,” Coriander said with a lift of her eyebrows.

“If she’s finding time to read, we’re not giving her enough to do.” Lady Wellington sighed as if this were a great burden on her.

Coriander shot out a hand, knocking over a giant vase. The heavy glass flew off her bedside table, dried flowers and tiny pea-sized marbles shooting across the room. The glass balls pinged and rolled into every corner and cranny. Cynthia watched in silent dread. The frog kicked once in her pocket then was still.

Coriander rolled her shoulders and smiled, showing crooked teeth. “Whoops! I can be so clumsy. You can start by picking that up.” She lifted her long, frizzy hair off her pencil-like neck. “Then you can help me dye my hair.”

“That will be a start. I’ll speak with the staff and see where else you’re needed. Perhaps the pig keeper could use you in the afternoons?” Lady Wellington shook her head, strutting out the door with a tap, tap, of her heels. “Come, kitten I want a short practice session with your sister. Your musical debut isn’t far off.”

Cynthia watched them go, shutting the door after them. She took in the thousands of tiny glass beads scattered throughout the room. It looked like a majority of them had come to rest in the open fireplace
,
mingl
ing
with the ash there. Cynthia sighed.

Coriander’s only window looked
in on
out to
the small courtyard in the center of the house.
Cynthia
knew this room well. It had been hers, the one she’d grown up in. She ran a light hand over the antique vanity she had sat at every morning for her mother to brush her hair. Several months after
Cynthia’s
father died, Coriander had taken a liking to
the room
and Cynthia had been shunted off to the basement.

Flinging open the window, the branches of her mother’s hazel tree rocked and swayed, pushing against the house even though there was no breeze. Cynthia puckered her lips and whistled a string of descending notes and waited. The leaves rustled, and with beating wings, birds began streaming in the open window. Orioles, cardinals, chickadees, and ravens; a pair of doves flapped in together, followed by a young jackdaw. As their numbers grew, Cynthia waved her hands at the flock to stop and closed the window. There was such a thing as too much help.

The birds perched on the bedposts, the top of the vanity mirror, on tabletops, and strutted the length of the windowpane. When Cynthia cleared her throat, they all stood still and gave her their undivided attention with their beady eyes. It gave her the chills. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for her mother’s gift to talk to birds, but well, they could be unsettling.

“Thank you for coming.” Cynthia cleared her throat again and tried not to look like she’d rather be doing anything else. “I could use a little help.” She gestured to the tiny glass balls littering the floor. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

She retrieved the glass vase from the floor that was somehow unscathed and set it back on the nightstand. The birds blinked at her for a second and with a rustle of wings, they launched themselves into the air. They wheeled and dipped, darted and dived until the air was alive with winged creatures. Smiling to herself, Cynthia ducked out the door and crept down the stairs.

She snuck past the well and the barn, the livestock p
e
i
ns and the fruit trees
,
to the back of the property. There, a small strip of disregarded dirt tugged at Cynthia’s heart. It had been her flower garden, her and her mother’s.
She
Cynthia
tried to keep it up after she’d died, but found she had less and less time to spend out here as her responsibilities in the house grew. She hadn’t set foot in this space since her father died.

Cynthia crept past the weed-choked flowerbeds. A few roses struggled to bloom amid the neglect, but the
place
looked sad and forgotten. A small man-made pond sat
in
the shade of the near by pine trees. This is where the Wellington property ended and the forest began. Water still trickled into the pond, keeping the surface clear. Wild grasses had grown up along the edges, but it made the little spot look more natural, probably what the frog was used to.

Cynthia sat on a rusting wrought iron bench and reached into her pocket, freeing the frog. His skin felt tacky and rough. He’d been out of the water too long. She lowered him into the
pond
.

“There you go.”

She stood up to leave. The frog seemed to shake itself out of a st
upor
ooper
. It kicked several times, propelling itself across the surface of the water with the awkward hind kick particular
only to frogs
to its kind
. Rolling on its back, it sighed and said, “Ahh much better.”

Cynthia blinked hard and sat back down on the bench. The frog stroked back to her and hopped to the edge of the little pond where it sat half in, half out of the water.

“You’re not a princess, are you?”
it asked.

Beyond the harsh, throaty quality of its voice that was not quite human, the frog was male and hopeful.

Cynthia opened her mouth to reply and popped it back closed again. It was one thing to understand birds. Their peeps and trills seemed to translate themselves inside her head. Bird vocabulary was limited and repetitive. Frankly, they weren’t overly bright. It was not like talking to another person.

She’d heard the occasional rumor of talking animals. It wasn’t unheard of in Elorium to get advice from a fox, and there was a fairly famous troupe of singing animals that traveled
from town to town
, although she had never seen them.

The frog blinked his bulbous eyes and a frown seemed to tug at his wide mouth. “Sorry, I know it can be a bit of a shock. You’ve got a surreal look on your face.”

“No, I
—”
—“
Cynthia paused and cleared her throat trying to rearrange her features into something other than stunned. “I understand birds. I just wasn’t expecting—you took me by surprise. That’s all.”

“Birds? I’ve never heard
of
that before.”

It was strange to watch the creature’s thin, flat lips move and words come out. It was like watching a puppeteer.

“I—“ she decided to
steer
this strange conversation away from herself. “What were you asking?”

“Oh.”
T
t
he frog splayed his webbed toes on his right foot. “Are you a princess? I mean, I know you don’t live in a castle, but I thought perhaps you were one in hiding?” The frog had ducked his head and looked up at her out of the top of his eyes like a hopeful boy.

Cynthia felt a smile wanting to tug at her lips. “I’m not. Sorry.”

His face fell.

“I’m Cynthia.” She held out her name like some kind of pitiful offering.

“Remi.” The frog waved a half hearted webbed hand at her and sank with his chin in the water until just his mouth and eyes jutted out.

She waited a second, and when no further information was forthcoming she prodded, “So…”

Remi’s head came up slightly. “How am I a talking frog?” A half grin twisted on his face. “Sorry, this is the longest conversation I’ve had. Most people scream and run. Or try to hit me with things.” He looked up at her with an expression Cynthia couldn’t read. She didn’t know if it was the look or the fact that it was on a frog’s face that was creating the difficulty. Something moved her to bend down and hold out her hand. Remi hesitated just a second before hopping into her palm. The pads on his feet were delicate and damp. She placed him beside her on the bench and waited.

“I haven’t actually tried talking to anyone in awhile, but you seem…” here the frog appeared to be selecting the right words, “like a person to take a chance on.”

“Because I rescued you?”

“I wouldn’t say rescued—“ Remi stammered out.

A brief image came to Cynthia of an abashed young man. That smile wanted to curl her lips up again. Twice in one day. It wasn’t a problem she usually had.

“I’m not saying you didn’t help,” he added. “Can’t deny I’d gotten myself in a pickle. It wasn’t just that.” He’d turned thoughtful. “It was more a feeling you were someone who might understand.”

Cynthia considered this and looked out across the ruined garden, catching sight of a nuthatch foraging for seeds. She shot out of her seat.

“The birds!”

“Oh right, in your sister’s room,” Remi said.

“Stepsister,” Cynthia corrected him, hurrying through the tall grass.

“Wait!” he hopped to the edge of the bench. “You’re not going to leave me here?”

Cynthia hesitated, shooting a worried glance at the house.

“Don’t you have to stay close to water?”

“Yes.”
His
answer was hesitant. “I can go for a few hours.”

Cynthia sighed and scooped him back into her pocket.

“Thanks!” came his muffled reply.

She ran back into the house.

Chapter
3

“
‘It’s just an apple, you old bat.’”

DUCKING BACK INTO CORIANDER’S ROOM, Cynthia breathed a sigh of relief. The marbles had been shuttled back into the vase and the birds were flitting around the room, waiting for her return. She flung the window back open, herding them outside with a brisk, “Thanks!”

She latched the window, swooped the dried flowers off the floor and popped them back in the vase as the door opened. Coriander narrowed her eyes at Cynthia who kept her face blank and expectant. Portia came in on her heels and flopped on
the
bed, kicking her feet up like she was about to enjoy a show.

Coriander checked behind the door, under the bed, and in the fireplace before she sniffed at Cynthia in what she supposed was approval.

“Have you mixed the hair color yet?”

Cynthia shook her head, already moving toward the door and snagging the box of color off the dresser as she went. “I’m going now.”

Coriander began to complain
of her laziness
with Portia chiming in, but Cynthia was already out the door and down the stairs.

She ducked into the kitchen, which was already in full swing for lunch preparations and found a corner.

“What are you up to, girl?” Ann, head cook and master of all things edible on the Wellington estate, appeared behind her.

“Mixing hair dye,” Cynthia said with a small smile.

“Like that’s going to help,” Ann said with a snort.

Cynthia quickly turned her laugh into a small cough.

“Well, here, don’t go using the nice bowls.” Ann produced a chipped, worn one from the drying rack. Cynthia flashed her a grateful look and mixed the dye with the developer. Remi wiggled slightly in her pocket and poked his head out, watching her work. Cynthia glanced around the kitchen, but the staff were all busy and Ann had been pulled back into the rush.

“Ugh,” Remi commented, scrunching his nose. Cynthia had to agree, the strong ammonia smell was less than appealing. The extra box of dye weighed down her pocket with guilt. She had bought it with the vague idea of sabotaging Coriander for her nastiness this morning, but she found most of her anger had faded.

“Cyn-thi-a!” Coriander’s shrill voice was so loud it echoed down the stairs and through the clatter of the kitchen.

Cynthia whipped the extra box out of her pocket, dumped the contents in the bowl and had it all in the applicator bottle in seconds. She poked Remi’s head back down. His protested, “Hey!” was muffled, and she flew back up the stairs.

“About time,” Portia mumbled around a mouth full of potato chips.

Cynthia pinned an old towel around Coriander’s shoulders
and
before
she flounced
in front of
to
the vanity. Cynthia took her time applying the color as her stepsisters gossiped about this prince and that neighbor, treating her like a piece of furniture. That was the way Cynthia preferred it.

When she was sure she’d colored every strand of hair—she’d hear about it if she missed any spots—she wrapped Coriander’s hair in a towel, set the timer, and escaped to the kitchen to help with lunch. Her hair would need to be rinsed in half an hour.

“How you doing, Remi?” she whispered on her way down the stairs.

“A little parched,” the voice floating from her pocket admitted. She swung through the servant’s bathroom, dribbling a few drops of water on his back. Her skirt swung gently as he chuckled. “Sorry. Tickles.”

In the dining room she set the table for lunch and hurried back up the stairs, crossing the threshold of Coriander’s room just as the timer rang. Cynthia rinsed Coriander’s hair in the sink.

“That’s cold!” Coriander wiggled out from under the water and scowled at her.

“It has to be cold or the dye won’t set,” Cynthia said, trying for a patient tone and feeling like she fell short. Coriander harrumphed and gave in to her administrations. Cynthia quelled a grimace as she ran her hands through her stepsister’s straw-like hair. With a towel wrapped back around her head, Coriander hurried to the vanity with Portia on her heels.

“You’re going to look amazing. That chocolate brown is really going to bring out your eyes.” Portia’s voice drifted from the bedroom.

Cynthia always thought Coriander’s eyes were more of a mud brown than a chocolate, but she held her tongue, like always, and cleaned up the bathroom. She didn’t want to be in the room when that towel was unwrapped.

The scream sounded right on cue. Cynthia wasn’t positive what would happen when you mixed brown hair dye with florescent pink, but apparently it wasn’t what Coriander had been expecting.

She kept her head down and kept wiping.

“What did you do?” Remi whispered from her pocket.

“What makes you think I did anything?”

“Right.”

Cynthia glanced down to see his smirk peeking out from her pocket. She winked and went back to scrubbing.

Footsteps clattered, shouting, and
Coriander’s murderous tread barreled back into the bathroom.

“What have you done!” Coriander’s screech made Cynthia’s scalp tingle. It took all her will power not to react to the orange shade of her stepsister’s hair. Not a calm redhead orange, but a florescent, unnatural hue found only in a crayon box.

She made her face calm and blank with a slight vague, puzzled expression. It was a look Cynthia had perfected over the years.

“Is that not the right color?”

Cynthia had never seen anyone ‘hopping-mad’ as the phrase goes, but apparently it was a real thing. Coriander stamped her feet and did a few little jumps before her voice went even higher. “Do you think I meant to do this?”

Lady Wellington appeared behind her daughter, just as furious but trying to put up a calm front. She laid a hand on Coriander’s should
er
, which seemed to do little to calm her down. “Where is the box of dye?”

Cynthia flipped it out of the trash and laid it in Lady Wellington’s hand. The color was obviously brown in the picture, the label on the side reading,
Warm Espresso
. It looked like Cynthia had inadvertently created the shade Atomic Tangerine.

Lady Wellington narrowed her eyes at Cynthia who kept the slightly confused look pasted on. “How did you mix it?”

“Just like it says on the package.” Cynthia altered her look to include a touch of wounded pride. “You can ask Ann, she watched me.”

And Ann had seen her do just that. Remi was the only one who’d see her act of sabotage, and his life was literally in her hands.

“Maybe we should contact Madam Camilla. Could it have been a bad batch?” Cynthia said in her I’m-trying-to-be-helpful voice.

Lady Wellington was trying to bore holes in Cynthia’s head. Cynthia held on to her mask and refused to blink or back down. She’d had years of practice at this game.

“We can’t do anything until after lunch. We’ll eat then go to the apothecary,” Lady Wellington said.

“I can’t be seen like this!” Coriander wailed and tugged at her hair as if she could pull the color off.

“It’s just the staff!” Lady Wellington snapped at her. “If it bothers you that much put on a scarf!” She turned and huffed downstairs.

Serving lunch that day was torture. Not that she didn’t enjoy Portia’s sly looks of glee at her sister
’
‘
s predicament, and Coriander’s deadly face and untouched lunch—but catching the eye of any other servant would have been the death of her. There was no way
they
either
could have kept a straight face.

The three of them left shortly after lunch. Portia with a lighter step than usual, Lady Wellington grim, and Coriander mortified.

Cynthia hurried to her room, stopping only to snatch bread and cheese from the kitchen for her own lunch and fill a small bowl with water for Remi. In the uproar that morning, Lady Wellington had forgot
ten
to assign her additional tasks.

She clattered down the stone steps, careful to keep her footing in the damp, and closed herself in the only space she could call her own.

She pulled off her filthy scarf and ran a hand through her hair. She took the frog from her pocket, settled herself cross-legged on the straw pallet that served as her bed, and tore off a piece of bread.

Remi blinked his wide set eyes in the sudden light and hopped straight for the bowl of water, splashing and rolling around in a way that reminded Cynthia of pigs wallowing in the mud. It was very unfrog-like.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Remi said.

Cynthia stared hard
at
her cheese and
tried
to banish the guilt rising in her chest. What must he think of her? And why did she care? He was a
frog
. A quick glance at him and his expression was one of teasing. His eyes roved around her room, taking in the cold fireplace, the mantel with her knickknacks, the broken table, the coatrack with one arm, and the single tiny window set high in the wall. Cynthia was suddenly self-conscious about her pitiful excuse for a room. She cleared her throat and held out a small chuck of bread.

“Want some?”

Remi flopped out of the bowl and cocked his head at the morsel. His tongue flicked out, plucking the crumb from her hand faster than she could blink. He chewed, swallowed, and kneaded the stone floor with the pads on his feet.

“Not bad. Some things don’t seem to agree with frog digestion, but that went down all right.”

“So you haven’t always been a frog?”

“I’m
not
a frog.” Remi’s chest swelled and he looked like he was about to let out a loud
ribbit
. “I’m an enchanted prince.”

As much experience Cynthia had at hiding her feelings, that was not what she was expecting him to say and a small snort of laughter escaped her.

If frogs could look offended, this one was. His voice was plaintive. “I
am
a prince. Remington Landry the third.”

Cynthia didn’t try hiding her grin this time. “Long handle for a frog.”

Remi tried to glare at her, but she could tell he found the situation just as absurd. He let out a low, croaky laugh. “It was a long name for me when I was human. I’m the youngest of six. All boys.”

“So how did you end up like this?” Cynthia asked, holding out another bit of bread.

Remi snapped it up quicker this time. “It’s a long story.”

Cynthia shrugged. “We might not get time later.”

Remi settled on his back legs. “It’s really my brother’s fault.” His frog face took on a scowl. “He’s second oldest and has always been a trouble maker. He’s getting too old for the scrapes he gets into. My mother calls him a perpetual child.” Remi flicked his tongue at the proffered food—cheese this time—and continued. “There’s a witch whose gardens border our castle grounds. She grows all kinds of magical crops. Poison apples, enchanted rampion, donkey lettuce, these purple flowers that conceal wishing rings, flower maidens—“

“Flower maidens?”

Remi rolled his protruding eyes. “Flowers that turn into girls.”

“Is that a thing?”

“You’d be surprised the demand they’re in.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “But they’re not very bright, I’ve met one.” He settled his shoulders and continued. “One of my brothers dared Laron to steal a talking apple from her garden.”

“A talking apple?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That can’t be real.”

“Oh
,
it is.” Remi began to chuckle. “And they say the funniest things. They’re great to play catch with. They just scream and cuss the whole time
—”
—“

Cynthia raised an eyebrow at him. “And which brother dared Laron?”

Remi looked abashed. “Well, that would have been me.”

Cynthia folded her arms and gave him a stern look. “It’s not just your older brother getting into scrapes, is it?”

“We’ve all been in our fair share of tight spots,” he admitted. “But he’s the ring leader.” Remi gave her a shrewd glance and a tight smile. “But I think he could learn a thing or two from you.”

Guilt and an odd pleased feeling warred within Cynthia. The satisfaction squashed the guilt flat and she gave Remi a smile and a shrug. “So what happened?”

“So Laron jumps the wall, swipes the apple, and is climbing back over when the witch does some kind of magic and appears not two feet from him.” Remi shakes his head, a tiny smirk on his face. “You should have heard the way he hollered.”

“And where were you?”

“Keeping watch in a tree on our side of the wall.”

“Great job.”