A Grimm Curse: A Grimm Tales Novella (Volume 3) (7 page)

“Good people of Elorium!” the king began. “Rejoice with me! Crown Prince Wilhelm will soon be of age!” The king’s mood was infectious. The crowd let out a roar of approval.

Cynthia swung her gaze to the prince who had an easy smile on his lips in the wake of the echoes of the crowd. He’d been only nine the last time she’d seen him. She had a vague memory of a dark-haired boy that seemed too long for his limbs.  He’d certainly outgrown that. The lanky arms and legs now had muscles that the expensive tux couldn’t hide and were perfectly proportioned with the rest of his tall frame. He held himself with an easy confidence that only made his dark eyes more attractive.

“Now
,
I know you’re not here for the food,” the king continued. A ripple of laughter made its way through the crowd. “Or because this handsome lad is going to choose a bride in three days time.” King Ferdinand clapped Wilhelm on the arm and the woman in the mob tittered excitedly. “You must be here for the music, and later, the dancing!”

The crowd cheered again, and a few eyes drifted to where Cynthia still sat, glued to her bench. Most of the audience kept their full attention on the royal family though, the young women on Wilhelm.

Attendants escorted the royal family to small thrones that had been set up on the side of the ballroom. The people quieted in anticipation. Lady Wellington
stared
daggers into Cynthia’s skull. With just her eyes, she clearly communicated her vast displeasure at Cynthia and the fact that not even a perfect performance would tame her full wrath. Lord Smithson nodded at Cynthia.

She turned to the ivory keys, clos
ed
her eyes and imag
ined
herself back at her own piano, her mother sitting on the sofa across the room. There might not be anything she could do about being stuck to the piano bench at the moment, but she wasn’t about to play
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
.

Cynthia poised herself over the massive grand piano, checked to make sure Portia was ready, and began to play.

Chapter
9

“
You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

CYNTHIA’S FINGERS FLEW OVER THE keys. The eyes of so many people on her felt like a physical weight, but she kept her focus on the music. She had to if she were to succeed.

Music had always fit Cynthia like a second skin. She’d memorized
Fantasie
years ago. There were gaps in her memory of course, but they had filled in the first day of rehearsal after Lady Wellington had made her play the quarter hour piece for the twelfth or thirteenth time that day. She’d have much rather preformed with her sheet music in front of her—but she didn’t really need it.

Cynthia lost herself in the music. The strings of Portia’s violin sang along with the notes echoing out of the piano. But Cynthia forgot about the audience, her furious stepmother, the royal family watching, and even being stuck to the bench. Remi remained in a corner of her mind. He was still as a rock on the bench with her, knowing something had gone wrong, but not sure what.

She was beginning to recognize what it meant to have a friend. Rapunzel was so far away and had been for a long time. But that’s exactly what Remi had become. Someone she could talk to, ask for advice, someone who made her miserable days more endurable with just his company. She hadn’t realized the lengths she would go to for anyone else, but here she was—stuck in her own personal nightmare for him.

The melancholy melody from the beginning of the piece repeated. Cynthia played the last few cords, the music ending with a quiet, unexpected resolution. She glanced at Portia, triumphant and apprehensive on the stage beside the piano. Cynthia looked out into the audience. Stunned was the collective reaction. A single person began to clap. It was the king, beaming at them from his throne.

The audience joined in. Thunderous applause rolled over them. Portia blushed a deep red and curtsied to the crowd. Cynthia sat, still adhered to her bench, mortified. She wasn’t even sure where to look, so she stared down at her hands in her lap. She wasn’t about to look at Lady Wellington whose undoubtable anger at her behavior might make her head explode. And she certainly didn’t want to see Coriander’s triumphant face.

“What’s wrong?” Remi asked in an undertone as the applause continued.

“I’m stuck,” she murmured into her lap.

Remi wiggle a
webbed foot
from her skirts and lightly touched the bench, his pads coming away covered in goo.

“Oh no.”

Lord Smithson was making his way toward them on the dais, still clapping—Lady Wellington and Coriander in tow.

“Marvelous! Please, take a bow ladies.”

Portia hadn’t stopped doing so. Cynthia smiled up at him, her mouth twisted in an apology.

“I’m afraid I may have turned my ankle on one of the pedals,” she said in an undertone.

“Really?” He blinked at her in an owlish way and looked lost a
s
t
what to do about her. “Perhaps I could assist you to stand?”

Over Lord Smithson’s shoulder, Coriander’s grin was full of malice.

“I—
”
Cynthia had no idea how she was going to get out of this situation without a spectacle. At this point she was just hoping for the least embarrassing solution possible.

“What is it now?” Lady Wellington had plastered a smile on her face for the audience, but her words were needles of fury.

“She’s twisted her ankle,” Lord Smithson said in an attempt to be helpful.

“Ridiculous drivel! Stand up!” Lady Wellington hissed, her false smile slouching.

They were now attracting a lot of attention. The royal family took notice and rose from their seats. They climbed onto the stage. The small space was now crowded with people.

Cynthia considered faking a fainting spell. That might be less humiliating at this point.

Lady Wellington was at the end of her rope. She curtsied low to the king and queen, murmuring, “Your majesties.” Her hand latched onto Cynthia’s upper arm and jerked her to her feet.

Her stepmother’s grip was like a manacle on her arm. The strength that desperation gave her lifted Cynthia bodily to her feet. The bench lurched up with her, launching Remi into the air like a catapult.

Every eye in the palace was on the small, green frog summersaulting through the air. Cynthia wondered if anyone else noticed the look of utter terror on his face. He arced high, but not far, coming down in a windmill of legs directly on
P
rincess Snowdrop’s crowned head.

As he landed, the back of Cynthia’s dress finally gave way with a loud
RIP
and the piano bench clattered to the ground. The only good thing about the situation was most everyone was watching with fascinated horror as the princess whacked her own head and shrieked. There was too much going on to really take in Cynthia standing there with no back to her skirt. The thought of how clean her underwear was flashed through her mind. She jolted into action, closing the back of her skirt the best she could with one hand, bounding the few steps to the princess, plucking Remi off her head and dashing down the steps of the stage. Commotion exploded behind her, but she refused to turn around. A loud chuckle rolled over the top of the sobs and angry voices—and somehow Cynthia knew it belonged to the crown prince.

A sea of faces turned to her, blocking her exit through the ballroom. She clutched Remi to her chest one handed and ran in the only direction open to her. She dashed through an archway,
past
passed
yards of tables laden with covered dishes in preparation for the feast, and through the first set of doors she came to.

Cynthia burst into a kitchen that the entire downstairs of the manor house could have fit in. An army of servants in white aprons buzzed around the stainless steel tables and cook tops in a wash of noise. Chopping, frying, dishes clattering, and instructions being meted out like a whip cracking from a diminutive woman who was clearly in charge and on a war path. She took one glance at Cynthia and bellowed to a nearby pastry chef, “Get her out of here!” in a thick German accent.

The pastry chef passed her tray of profiteroles to the apple cheeked girl next to her with a, “Here, Molly,” and hustled Cynthia away from the frenzy.

The woman was about the age Cynthia’s mother was when she died. She had a friendly, open face, and striking green eyes.

“You can’t be back here, dear.” She took in Cynthia’s strange one-handed posture and glanced behind her. “What have you done to your dress?”

“Please, just get me out of here,” Cynthia said. Here eyes darting to the swinging doors she’d burst through.

The pastry chef sighed and studied Cynthia
's
panicked face a moment. “Here, put this on.” She took off her apron and tied it around Cynthia’s waist backward, covering the missing portion of her skirt. She hustled her to a small wooden door set in the back wall of the kitchen. “Keep going up the stairs to the very top. There’s a roof access up there. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Cynthia shook her head no.

“There’s a fire escape attached to the side of the castle that should get you back on ground level.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia whispered before swinging through the door and closing it on the woman’s look of pity.

Cynthia tripped up the deserted servant’s staircase in the low flickering light of the sconces
set
at intervals along
the
wall
s
. She uncupped her hands from Remi, who was still trembling slightly.

“Want to ride on my shoulder?” she asked.

He nodded and climbed up to grip her ruined dress with the sticky pads on his feet. She felt his chin burrow into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Not your fault, Remi.”

She was out of breath but the stairs wouldn’t end.
The
steps
spiraled up and up
. T
he occasional landing would appear
, but there
were always more stairs beyond it.
At last the steps ended in a blank stone wall. A ladder had been propped against it, leading to a wooden hatch in the ceiling. The rungs creaked in an alarming way when she put her weight on them. She pushed open the trap door and pulled herself into the cool evening air.

She stood on top of one of the flat stone turrets on the south side of the castle. The sun had just set, and the land still clung to the dwindling light. The wind was stiff this high up, and it tugged at her hat and at Remi still clinging to her shoulder.

“Nice view,” he commented.

A low shed stood in the middle of the circular space. The cooing call particular to pigeons wafted to her on the wind. This must be the messenger birds’ roost. On the other side, the edge of the fire escape stuck above the stone ledge.

A door creaked open and Cynthia ducked behind the coop.

“Now what?” Remi muttered.

There must be more than one way to access this tower. She didn’t know who would be up here during the feast, but she didn’t want to see anyone just now.

A heavy tread scuffed against the stones, heading straight for the shed. She skirted inside the opening. The pigeons started, flapping and calling in alarm.

“Shhh,” Cynthia soothed in a whisper, “nothing to worry about.”  The birds immediately calmed. She peered through the slats at the unknown person, and almost yelped.

Remi felt her tense. “Who is it?”

“The prince.”

What in the world was he doing up here? Was he looking for her? No, that was absurd.

He rounded the side of the coop and with horror, Cynthia realized he was heading inside the little shed
with
a tiny roll of paper in one hand.

What in the world did the prince have to communicate in the middle of his own party?

She had only seconds to act. “Fly!” she told the roosting pigeons. They stirred on their perches and blinked at her sleepily.

Outside, the prince paused. “Who’s there?” he called, suspicion heavy in his voice.

“Danger!” Cynthia called to the birds in desperation. That got them moving. In a flurry of wings and high-pitched keening, they dove for the door in a rush. The prince staggered back, raising his hands to block his face. Cynthia darted out of the shed in the midst of the pigeons and straight for the fire escape. She swung a leg over and was thundering down the steep metal steps two at a time.

“Stop!” the prince called from the top of the keep. Cynthia didn’t pause and didn’t look up. She prayed the dying light and the distance kept him from getting a good look at her. The pigeons flocked around the turret, confused. She hopped on the retractable ladder at the end of the fire escape and rode it to the ground, jarring herself badly as it stopped a few feet short. She stumbled off and ran for the edge of the woods. It was fully dark under the evergreen canopy of the forest and she tumbled along, tripping over roots and staggering through low bushes.

The heel of her shoe snapped, sending her flying to the ground. Remi tumbled off her shoulder and landed a few feet away. Her hands prickled from the dry pine needles shoved into her palms. She collapsed and buried her face in her hands, letting loose all the tears she’d kept at bay throughout the evening. She sobbed, feeling as if a plug had been pulled on her emotions and they were spilling out all at once. She cried for her wretched life and her dead parents. She cried for the constant loneliness and hatred she felt in her own home. She cried for the helplessness she felt. She tore off the broken shoe and hurled it into the dark woods. She ripped the hat off her head and it followed the shoe. She screamed into the night like some wounded animal and curled into a ball on the hard ground, tears still leaking down her cheeks, chest heaving with pain and rage.

She felt Remi land lightly on her knee, but didn’t look at him. She was ashamed she’d lost control and a little angry he was there to see her suffering.

He wrapped his tiny, webbed arms around her knee and sighed. “I hate not being able to give you a proper hug.”

The sob that was working its way out of her chest changed to a half laugh and a strange sound came out. She sat up, careful not to throw Remi off again.

“It’s all my fault,” he
sighed
moaned
.

“It’s not your fault,” Cynthia cried hotly. “You and I both know it’s Coriander’s fault. Lady Wellington didn’t help either.”

“Well, that’s that I guess,” Remi said, laying his chin down on her knee like a pitiful puppy. “The one princess I saw I didn’t exactly make a stellar impression on.”

Cynthia couldn’t help it, she let out a low chuckle. Remi’s short flight and Snowdrop’s overreaction
was
a little funny in retrospect. “But at least you made an impression.”