 
Forest Seclusion

A Supposed Crimes Anthology

Smashwords Edition

Supposed Crimes LLC, Matthews, North Carolina

Copyright 2017

All Rights Reserved by Authors

Published in the United States

ISBN: 978-1-944591-43-4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Included Stories

White Deer by Jess Martin

Curses, shape-shifting, and shrimp fairies: welcome to Jess's version of Madame d'Aulnoy's fairy tale where she gender-bends the cursed creation, takes liberty with the hero's tale, and finds a princess who isn't in a rush to get rescued.

Snow White by Christina Rosso

When Snow White's father brings home Nadene, her new step-mother, the princess has doubts about the girl's ability to be a queen and mother, but what Snow White never expects is to fall in love with her.

The Tree of Wisdom by Dale Cameron Lowry

A curse cast on Prince Florian makes love a dangerous enterprise. But when he meets animal whisperer Olvir, he falls willingly.

If Only You Were Someone Else by Jennifer Loring

A changeling is willing to risk everything to discover who and what s/he really is--especially when s/he falls for a human male.

Heaven Scent by Chantal Boudreau

A highly sensual retelling of Rapunzel from an insider's perspective.

White Deer

Jess Martin

A punishment shouldn't bring so much joy. Yet when the sun illuminated Faith's human shape initiating her transformation into a deer, pleasure radiated through the cursed princess. Cloaked in an ethereal white coat, Faith marveled at the silver antlers that rose anew each dawn from where her father had once placed her mother's crown on her head. He teased her then as a father does, declaring, "one day, you will be the queen of every soul that looks upon you."

Stag or doe, Faith wondered why the curse warped her into a creature that was neither one nor the other. But then, fairies that wove magical spells as easily as tapestries were not often called upon to explain their rationale.

As the story was told to Faith, the Well Fairy issued her fateful words on the day of Faith's christening: the princess should never see the sun before her eighteenth birthday or else an unnamed doom would befall her. Faith's mother blanketed the child's head and retreated to the castle's deepest keep. Faith's father constructed a magnificent underground palace that he staffed with the kindest and most talented of tradesfolk and teachers. Faith's sentence banished them all from the light, but as a family, they found a way to make a new world, which would allow them to bear the years of darkness to come.

Faith never wanted for sunlight. Grand rooms carved in the stony earth were painted in an array of vivid colors. Footmen lit thousands of candles every hour, adorning the caverns in a subterranean glow that burned and bounced about in flickering delight. The smell of wax and flame became the aroma of home.

On the year of her eighteenth birthday, Faith noticed a palpable change in the atmosphere of the underground palace. Though no one dared show any unease with the nontraditional accommodations, Faith noticed the growing excitement for the day of her release into the world above. Faith avoided any discussion about that long awaited day. She clung to the darkness around her like a well-worn cape. Candlelight cast shadowy figures that enticed her imagination, and if she ever wished to avoid an argument with her mother or a teacher, Faith crawled away into her labyrinth of secreted wormholes. There, she chiseled her own chambers and often found her way to them without a light to guide her. The dark, like a kind friend tugging her ahead, led her deeper into the earth to a place where she could feel completely safe.

She couldn't avoid the march of time, and no hiding place could keep her birthday from arriving. Her father busied himself with restoring the neglected palace that towered above their current home. Her mother commissioned artisans to paint a portrait of Faith. The king found the painting so pleasing that he had copies sent across the land as he prepared for Faith's entry into the over-world. He invited royal families across the neighboring territories to a reception to welcome his daughter to the land where seasons dwelled.

Not a month before the happy day, however, a large retinue arrived in Faith's homeland. Messengers relayed that the impressive party took three days to enter the kingdom. A young man dressed in the finest regalia bore a purple banner emblazoned with two brilliant gold arrows that crossed in an X. When he spoke, he brushed aside the curled auburn hair from his face and introduced himself as Lord Converse, an emissary sent by King Warlock.

When the name of Warlock was mentioned, it traveled the underground kingdom as quickly as any echo. It had only been a year since the young ruler had inherited the throne from his well-regarded father. The new king was the subject of many discussions as his every move was weighed and analyzed. Not only did Warlock rule over the large port city where all trade gravitated to, but he also oversaw a fleet of warships and an army five times the size of any known to the people in Faith's home. He had already proven his ambition by leading that army in a successful battle to take the southern lands that had so long vexed his family line. Warlock wanted only for a queen, and Warlock had received Faith's portrait.

On behalf of the warrior king, Converse urged, cajoled and then as much as quietly threatened Faith's parents to permit the princess to travel overland to his master's kingdom. As Converse put it, this would be Faith's opportunity to prove her eligibility to be Warlock's queen.

Faith's mother met Lord Converse's gaze and explained the Well Fairy's curse to him. "You have but only a scant month to tell your kind lord to wait, surely he can grant us this time as a show of his pure intentions," the queen spoke with as much honey as she could will into her tone.

Lord Converse had heard the strange tale of the curse on his journey to this quaint and backward kingdom. He allowed for some eccentricities of these simpler country folk with their charming beliefs in a world of magic and fairies, but he would not be deterred by superstitious nonsense. He steeled himself for his next words, coughing gently into his chest to alleviate the weight of the stale air that hung about him.

"My King's heart suffers greatly for a queen, and His Majesty accepts no compromise once he has set himself on his course. This makes him an exceptional lord, as I'm sure you agree. Upon hearing about the princess' condition, I had my men construct a carriage as impenetrable to light as this very unusual castle. The princess will not come to any harm as she makes but a week's journey hence." Converse clapped his hands loudly to cue the spectacle to come. The ancient oak doors of the court were pushed as wide as they would open. Thirty men dressed in sleek decorated purple uniforms lumbered into the court, carrying the carriage on long boards that rested on their broad shoulders.

The message was clear. There was only one response expected: capitulation. Faith's parents surrendered to the twist destiny had set before them. While Faith's father ensured that the courtiers installed Faith in the carriage under the light of a full moon, her mother recruited her most trusted Lady-in-Waiting, Lady Weed, and Lady Weed's two daughters, Prickly and Daisy, to join Faith in the journey.

Fate beckoned the curse despite every effort Faith's parents made, and Lady Weed stood perfectly poised to encourage the arrival of Faith's doom. Lady Weed had earned her place at the queen's side through flattery and manipulation, plotting her rise to royal status. Her years of deception finally appeared to have its reward close at hand with the arrival of Lord Converse. This journey gave her the opportunity to put her eldest daughter before King Warlock in the princess' place.

Lady Weed had ensured that no one outside the court had ever seen the princess, aside from that ill-conceived portrait. It was a common enough practice, Lady Weed convinced herself, that royals exaggerated their own beauty, and Prickly's unassuming visage could be explained away to King Warlock with a few flattering turns of phrases. Lady Weed trusted her way with words when it came to royalty. She folded a knife deep into her skirts as she boarded her two daughters into the carriage and swore a false oath to protect the princess.

Faith had never traveled beyond the confines of her palace, even when night offered reprieve from the curse. Her parents had practiced caution in this respect. After all, couldn't fairies summon daylight with but a few words? Despite this, Faith felt the change of territory as the carriage hobbled over the well-traveled road that led toward the sea. Daisy, her truest friend, sat next to her, arm entwined in Faith's as a comfort, whispering stories of imagined landscape they could not see from the dark confines of the carriage. Five days passed, and Faith recalled from her studies of these lands that they would enter the hunting grounds of King Warlock. Her homeland behind her, the rich scent of fir and summer heat filled the carriage.

If Faith had not been restricted to the gentler arts of science and literature, if she had been trained in the art of battle, she might have known how to react when she saw the glint of steel. The blade in Lady Weed's hand sliced through the carriage of shadows as she slashed at the heavy curtains. Instead, Faith sat stupidly to the side, avoiding the blade's edge and wondering at Prickly's cackling laugh that had always irritated her so.

What bright warm light filled Faith's eyes! Her heart felt the larger for it, and her very flesh responded to the sensation of this orb's life-giving heat. This was sunlight, she thought, so this is that element she had only read about. Too late, Daisy raised her cloak to cover Faith from the light that tickled over her form. Faith's fate fluttered in on soft waves of light only to land with a sharp and heavy pain that shook her body out of the carriage.

Faith stumbled onto the ground. Warm earth crumbled in her hands, so different from the cold stone she had always known. She felt blind in this new world; the light eclipsed her. She pressed her eyes shut. Her lungs burned at the openness of the air. The pain returned twice over with a heat equal to the summer sun that pressed down on her, but this new heat swirled inside her. Blood and bones boiled and twisted. Surely, this was dying, Faith rolled on her back wishing for the final blow that would deliver the release of death.

She cried out as she reached for the earth, but rather than feeling her fingers in the loose dirt, hoof pawed the ground. Faith lurched forward. She heard the tear and release of her dress as she jerked up to stand on four sinewy legs. The width and girth of her new shape replaced her slim, delicate body, and as she came to her full height, the pain that had so suddenly held her in its grip had just as quickly subsided. Her new form commanded her to leap. She relished the energy brought about by the growing muscles that twisted new pathways inside her. Infused with a wild energy, she bounded in a wide circle around the carriage, relishing the sensation of the air combing over her coat of brilliant white hair.

Faith met Daisy's gaze for only the briefest of moments. Her dearest friend cried out as she climbed down from the carriage. Faith's ears twitched in instinctual warning as she heard the carriage driver notch an arrow in his bow. Lady Weed stood beside the man, urging him to shoot the demon-beast that threatened the fair princess. Prickly, for her part, hid herself under the cloak she stole from Daisy's seat.

Faith ran to the dark woods. The shadows called her to the sanctuary they provided among the trees and dense undergrowth. Arrows struck the ground at her feet with reverberating thwunks, but none made their mark that day.

#

Summer passed in this way for Faith. Exiled by her inability to hide because of her moon-glow hue, she dared not risk traversing the open farmland that lay between these woods and her homeland when she had no natural landscape to disguise her from a hunter's arrow or another predator's hunger. She thanked the spell for at least making her larger than the other deer that wandered these foreign woods. She liked too the weight of her five-pointed antlers. They were her greatest weapons. She knew her size as a stag was impressive; even wolves slinked back at the sight of her.

Faith found this forest a wonderland of green. She enjoyed the grasses and leaves. She grew bigger and stronger with each passing day. She clambered up hillsides without losing a breath or step. She gracefully descended steep rocky paths with her four sure-footed hooves. She recognized the paths made by other deer, and soon enough found herself among her new kin. She stood apart from the other deer, for they sensed the magic around her even if she had not been so strikingly different in appearance. But she earned their trust and a place among the doe and fawns as she protected them from the bear and wolf as well as the traps placed by man.

As each day ended, the curse relaxed its hold on her, and, she returned to her human shape. Naked as she was to the elements, she negotiated a space in the den of her fellow creatures, which kept her warm and safe in their fold. Perhaps some aura of the magic hung onto her flesh or perhaps the musk of her animal form fooled them as Faith convinced herself that this could be the only way these deer allowed her to nest among them. However, there were times when Faith would meet a doe's gaze, and she wondered if the creature somehow knew and welcomed the protection she offered as the White Stag.

Every dawn, she returned to her wild self. She saw no reason in the change except the sunlight's return, and with that knowledge, Faith resolved herself to her destiny. In those early days, she had hoped to find signs of anyone searching for her. She once wondered if the story of her change had traveled back to her home. But after the woods had stood silent for too long, Faith came to believe that Lady Weed's treachery must have included a tale that told of the princess' death by the crushing blow from the demon moon-beast that had risen from the earth on that fateful day. With time, thoughts of her parents and home floated into the mist of magic that enshrouded her, and the longing for her former life lessened with each passing day.

When autumn came, the leaves fell; the days became gray and full of the sounds of hunters. Arrows flew and traps snapped as King Warlock's best men looked to build up their meat stores for the winter. These were his hunters. She knew them by the purple of their cloaks and the banners with the crossed arrows they kept at their campsites.

Faith took to the rocky crags, the high ground for her daytime jaunts, to track the hunters as they stalked through the forest. From that vantage point, she secured another day of life. When the hunters would break their hunt in the dying light, Faith waited until the camps grew quiet with sleeping men. In her human form, she crept into these camps with only her familiar friend of darkness close at hand. Almost eighteen years under the earth had sharpened her night vision, and she slipped past traps and undetected into the camps. She dismantled their bear traps and snapped arrows in half when the wind stirred the trees; the swing of branches covered the sounds of sabotage, careca. At dawn's light, she watched from her hillside perch the roving bands of hunters bickering over broken arrows and lost gear.

#

Rumors of the great white stag traveled to the nearby farms and villages, primarily on the mouths of disgruntled hunters who returned early from their expeditions, with less bounty than they had hoped for. These tales spread from one farm to another along the river valley that marked the border between the woods and the rest of King Warlock's land. These animated words made their way to the modest farm that Daisy had taken shelter at.

Visions of the day the sun had found Faith haunted the young maid all summer. On that cursed day, she raced into the woods after her transfigured princess, deserting her mother and deplorable sister on the forest road rather than join in their treacherous scheme. Though she made every effort, Daisy lost hope of catching the mystical stag that vanished into the cover of the lush green woods. Daisy heard the carriage drive on without her, and she wished it a bitter farewell. She had not anticipated her mother's betrayal, and she never considered returning to the road to beg for a safe journey out of this wild and unknown land. She pushed through the thick bracken, leaving the road further and further behind.

She spent a few nights in those woods, harvesting berries and what few mushrooms she was certain were safe to eat. Gratefully, she managed to reach the woods' end and wandered down a narrow path to a small farmhouse. There, an aging farmer and his childless wife allowed her to make camp on their property in exchange for some tasks she would do around the farm. At the end of each working day, she wandered into the forest, as far as she dared in the dim light, following game trails and leaving rock towers to guide her on the next search.

With these new stories of this unearthly creature, Daisy reaffirmed her resolve to find the princess. She gathered as many details as she could from the hunters leaving the forest and made her preparations for a longer journey, following the game paths to the encampments the hunters advised her to seek, if the clever maid thought herself bold enough to catch a glimpse of the terrible white stag.

The sun was yet to rise as Daisy helped the farmer and his wife load their cart with bushels of squashes, potatoes and apples to take to the village's Fall Harvest Festival. She waved a fond safe journey and safe roads to them as the farmer whipped his stubborn mule to stutter-step into the cold early morning light. Daisy packed food for her day's search, gathering her warmest cloak around her before setting off on her course through the woods.

Morning sunbeams cast brilliant angled columns of light along the forest floor. While her former paths lay hidden under so many newly fallen leaves, Daisy welcomed the openness provided by the leafless trees as she marched on with undaunted steps. She trusted that she had learned roughly the right direction to the closest hunter's camp. She sighed with satisfaction, as she smelled campfire smoke after only an hour's walking. She followed the scent and then the sounds of men rising for the morning, preparing for the day's hunt.

"Howard, Howard! Where are you, foolish boy?" a booming voice cried. As the man called the name of this poor soul, Howard, Daisy felt a kinship for the servant who was clearly going to be recipient of a strong scolding if not worse.

Daisy heard the servant running through the woods, breaking through brush and dead branches with all the grace of a wounded bear. "Sire, I have spied the stag!" Howard's youthful voice returned, eager and short of breath.

Daisy didn't see the men, but these words rang clear. She swept her eyes over the forest landscape, straining her vision to catch a glimpse of white, a shadow of the ghostly deer, or more, her princess, there, before her. An arrow pierced her cloak before lodging itself in a tree. Daisy screamed, less in terror than in defiance. Birds scattered from the tree canopy at her cry.

The white of her own apron betrayed her, making the hunter see her as the white stag Daisy sought. For the next two hours, the hunter and his squire begged her forgiveness as they fortified her from their own food stocks. Howard produced a rich coffee from the campfire, and the hunter told even better stories of the White Stag that managed to elude men. "I know that stag takes to the rocky hills, like a demon who doesn't know its own skin. No other deer takes to rocks like that," the hunter expounded. "And we're left with three arrows this morning, thanks to that blasted creature. It's not a coincidence, miss. Every time arrows go missing, that stag is spied somewhere nearby the next morning. I can feel it watching us even now! We will have to fish for our winter's stores. I hate dried fish."

Daisy advised the hunter to take up pig farming before he pointed her toward the hills he considered the stag's territory. With a blessing of farewells, Daisy headed back into the woods. As she left the camp, she passed the arrow that remained in the pine tree's scarred trunk. Sap slunk out from the tree, like an oozing wound. She shivered once more at the thought of the arrow piercing her own skin, but at the thought of an arrow finding her princess, Daisy felt a pang that twisted at her heart in a way she did not want to dwell on. She turned her attention back to the task at hand; the hills were a fair distance away, and it would take her most of an afternoon to make the journey.

#

Faith's ears pricked up at the sound. No doubt some creature moved through the leaves, clumsy shuffling feet. Had she heard a voice? Words traveled light on the air, but also resonated in defiance of anyone who would question they had been spoken. Faith smiled at the memory of that voice, as much as a stag could smile.

"My princess?" A voice formed a structure around the shape of sound.

Sweet and clear, as she remembered, Faith heard Daisy's call from the woods. Faith surveyed the barren trees, looking for a flash of movement, a sign of her dear friend.

"My princess?" Daisy called again.

Faith found her stumbling lost in the woods. She spied Daisy as the young maid struggled through the leaf-fall. The young maid looked pale and underfed since Faith had last seen her. She appeared as though she had been searching since the moment they were separated, and as soon as Faith thought that, she knew it to be true. Faith held herself back from charging down the slope to her friend's side. Caution and a familiar twitching in her ears told her that there were hunters close at hand, and while they may be a distance off, their arrows traveled far.

Faith looked to the sky, to the clouds thickly gathered overhead. She sent an urgent prayer to the fairies she felt certain were dancing there. "Grant me a snow fall, heavy and quick, for this lost princess." Only a wish for winter with its gift of white could offer Faith the cover she needed to close the space between her friend and herself.

Flakes formed and fell, and soon there was a fine layer of snow and ice making the world sparkle as well as any fairy kingdom could aspire to.

Faith heard the hunters' retreat. The sudden winter pushed them back to warm hearths and dry shelter. But Daisy, her truest, shielded her eyes from the snow while she pressed deeper into the wood.

Faith picked her way down the hillside, and not wishing to startle Daisy in her beastly form, thought it best to stay hidden for a while longer. She broke a path through the snow, certain Daisy would find and follow the signs. Faith tucked herself in the shelter of branches, seeming to disappear within the veil of white that filled the meadow. She waited, still and silent.

The snow blanketed the forest and sound alike, so Faith calmed her breath as she listened to each crunching footfall. When Daisy reached the meadow, the young maid collapsed at the water's edge. She grabbed a stone no bigger than her fist and smashed the thin skin of ice that had formed over the water. Tossing the stone aside, she cupped her hands and scooped water into her mouth to satisfy her desperate thirst. She neglected to hear the wolf's approach. An unpleasant snarl from behind made her reach for the stone though she feared it might be too late.

As Daisy turned to see her attacker face on, she witnessed a terrible magical sight. A great white stag leapt from the tree cover and hoisted the wolf, mid-pounce, up in its silver antlers and tossed the haggard beast, yelping into the icy pond. The rabid wolf crashed through the ice and grappled to pull itself out of the cool water but could get no purchase on the ice around it. It barked and growled at the air, until it sank below the water's surface. Ice formed back over the gaping hole, and an eerie silence swept over the meadow.

Daisy staggered up to her feet. She wrapped her arms around the stag's neck.

Faith felt her own arms reach around Daisy, hands clasping the too thin form of her friend. Faith had lost track of the day, and as dusk settled around them, her human form had returned.

Daisy saw as much as felt the transformation of her princess in her arms. It took but a moment, and Daisy was amazed, not expecting this day to end with her looking upon her dear friend's beautiful face. Certainly, she had not expected to see all of her friend in human form.

Daisy wrapped her cloak around the princess' shoulders. "Are you real again? Is it possible that I broke the spell?"

"Only for the time between dusk and dawn." Faith's voice was raw and cracked, for it had been almost two seasons since she had spoken. Faith pulled Daisy back into her arms. "Come dear one, we have so much to tell each other. Come with me into the wood."

Tears fell down Daisy's cheeks freely as Faith led Daisy into the darkening wood. She smiled at the strength of Faith's grip around her hand, determined not to lose the touch that connected them in the gathering storm. Daisy marveled at Faith's bare feet breaking the snow, seemingly impervious to the cold. Daisy dared herself to believe in the vision that moved so gracefully through the woods before her. A glow began to burn within her, as her heart seemed to swell and her breathing quicken. After so many months of searching, she had her princess again.

#

When Daisy woke, she realized dawn had long since arrived, and she found herself abandoned in the den that the deer had shared with them. Her cloak was spread over her in a careful way, so what warmth she had stayed with her.

Faith must have been tired when she awoke as the white stag at dawn. For the two of them had lain close together throughout the night, telling each other the tales of the past four months. Though the darkness had been deep in the folds of so many snow-laden branches of the thicket, occasionally a shaft of moonlight would pierce the shelter. All too briefly, Daisy caught a glimpse of Faith's lips, turning to a smile, or her eyes, reflecting a knowledge that hadn't been there before. Daisy struggled against the unfamiliar darkness, but Faith had long found a home in the night. Night held no threat to her. Faith spilled out the stories of her life as the magical stag of these woods. Daisy's face became sore from smiling so much as she treasured her sweet friend's return.

"A stag? I saw it myself, but still, I don't understand."

"Do not seek answers from the one who suffers from the curse." Faith laughed. "But I am grateful to have the form that gives me a fighting chance."

Daisy felt the winter's bite at her skin, and she trembled both at the coldness and the vision of her princess facing wolves, hunters, and other dangers unknown to her. "My princess." Daisy clutched Faith closer to her, finding both warmth and comfort in her arms. A passing ray of moonlight passed over the thicket as the wind stirred the branches, and for a moment, Daisy saw her mistress again. Faith's alabaster skin reminded Daisy how long the poor princess had lived without daylight. Daisy caught up the cloak that had slipped from the soft curve of Faith's hip and pulled it tight around her. Faith snuggled closer to Daisy's chest, keeping Daisy wrapped around her.

"For warmth," Faith had said.

"For friendship," Daisy had whispered in return.

#

Alone in the mid-morning, Daisy crawled back through the briars and out into the wintry world. A collection of hoof prints preceded her exit, so she used these depressions for her own purpose as she pulled herself free of the den.

"My word and heart indeed," an elderly woman's voice exclaimed. The unexpected voice caused Daisy to lose her delicate balance and she collapsed, feeling foolish as she felt the wet snow seep into her dress. She raised herself up to standing to face the stranger, and in deference to her elder, Daisy then stooped a little to meet the woman, face-to-face. The woman smiled broadly despite the gaps where her teeth had once been. "Are you fairy or monster or simply a lost maid who rises from the frozen earth?" the woman asked, a pinch of humor in her tone as if she knew the answer already.

"Do not fear. I am a maid, no longer lost but found again by your honored presence."

"You are a precious one to flatter me so. It is rare I walk this path, but a grumpy old white stag blocked my way and seemed to insist I go this way."

They shared a smile, and Daisy felt this old woman must be very wise, or a fairy herself, or perhaps both; and on good feeling alone did she decide to trust the seeming kind stranger.

"The stag is my princess, cursed to wander as a wild creature during the day as long as the sun shines. I am her lady, and only just found her."

"And as the sun sets, she returns to her human form until the sun rises again. I know the spell all too well."

"Are you an enchantress?"

"I am a silly old woman, who has lived long and forgotten in this forest, but still I listen to all the stories these woods tell me. I have a cottage nearby, and I can provide you shelter and hearth for the coming winter that seems to have come all the earlier this year. You may stay as long as the curse continues, as long as you wish it."

Daisy clasped the old woman's hand with both of hers, and because she had been well-trained in the manner of the old rituals as well as the new, she chose the old form of pledging respect and gratitude by kissing the back of the old woman's hand twice. She shouldered the old woman's rucksack as a small gesture of what she could offer in return. The old woman stared at Daisy then waved her hand at nothing, snorting a bit at the air. She shuffled in place, adjusting to the absence of the weight she had been used to carrying.

"Then I take it that you will keep me company. Follow along then." SheSheShe then led the poor, threadbare girl through the woods on some secret path, made even more hidden by the fresh snow, to her cottage.

As they walked and chatted and lapsed into peaceful silence, they heard at times the soft crunch of a heavy hoof or the brush of hair against a branch, creating flurries of snow to fall from low branches. Daisy and the old woman shared a knowing look.

"I have a chicken roasting over the fire, and now I find it is time to make a feast in honor of our new family." The old woman made sure to say this loud enough for anyone close to hear. "But one must arrive in good time to enjoy the feast."

A humble cottage of hewn logs and a sturdy thatch roof lay nestled in a clasp of trees. A shallow brook tripped along a pebble path past a small garden where tomatoes frosted with ice still clutched to the vines. An eave hung over a welcoming front porch, and Daisy could see the windows were trimmed with simple linen curtains. The old woman opened her door wide as she shuffled her feet over the doorstep. Daisy stayed at the entrance. She smelled the roasting chicken from the hearth that filled the interior of the cabin. A hunger crawled through her belly at the aroma.

A modest fire blazed as the chicken turned on its spit. A rough lopsided table stood close to the hearth with collection of candles burnt down to nubs of wax. A broken rocking chair lay tilted on its side. A bench cluttered with drying herbs, flowers, and stray swaths of cloth leaned against the chair. Cabinets with broken doors held little reserve of food on their rough-hewn shelves. Curtains of smoke-stained linen hung on each side of the hearth, and Daisy supposed they served as a screen to the rooms beyond, one for the old woman and another for herself. Simple and sparse as it was, Daisy felt she stood upon the edge of a fairy's palace. She touched her forehead and tapped her foot once at the doorstep as she made the blessing of safe home before stepping over the threshold.

Dusk arrived, and so too a light knock on the door. With a nod and approving smile from her hostess, Daisy ushered the naked Faith into the warm home. Daisy draped a winter dress of linen over Faith.

"Wherever did this shift come from?" Faith smiled as her head emerged through the dress. Her long arms stretched through the sleeves.

"Our host provided the material. It is poorly made now, but I will improve it tomorrow with more time." Daisy blushed as she helped Faith's hands find their way through the sleeves. She expected to find Faith frozen from the cold, but she found her warm to the touch. Daisy gasped in delight as she lifted Faith's hands to her face.

"The heat stays with me for a while after the change," Faith said, allowing the girl to enjoy the feeling of Faith's hands against her cool face. "Perhaps you noticed yesterday?"

"I only knew you in that moment, and now I have you again to notice all the more."

Faith's fingers traced the edges of Daisy's cheeks. a gentle touch journeyed over the maid's black eyebrows followed by a thumb glancing over Daisy's lips. A sudden warmth traveled from down Daisy's neck and would have continued further if she hadn't pulled herself back and taken the princess' hands into her own. "Please, come in, my princess, and meet our kind mother who has offered us this shelter." Faith squeezed Daisy's hand, and Daisy nodded as she met Faith's questioning gaze. "Come, I trust her as I trust you."

Faith stepped forward, feeling the comfort of Daisy's arm next to her own as they stood in the welcoming hearth. Before Faith could make her greeting, the old woman lowered herself in homage to the princess.

"Your Highness, you do me this great honor to enter my home," the old woman tried to speak as she thought she should.

Faith had grown unaccustomed to such formalities and stood dumbly silent as she struggled to remember the right words to say. Her eyes made a desperate look to Daisy, and Daisy winked then raised her eyebrows as she curled her lip. It was a game they had played as children. At court, Daisy had been so much better at memorizing all the rites and customs of the court. Faith failed at keeping the practices in her mind, but Daisy taught her a secret language in which Daisy made certain gestures and motions to remind Faith how to proceed. Faith need only discover a moment to steal a look to gather Daisy's expressed clues. Now, Faith fought the urge to caress Daisy's curling lip again with her thumb to thank it for the indications it gave her.

"Please kind and fair mother, rise and look upon me as your own family. For this service and shelter you provide, you shall ever have a place in my heart." Faith remembered how Daisy had called the old woman 'mother.' So Faith added, "you shall be as my own mother, for as long as I walk upon the earth, and beyond it as I am able."

The old woman rose and, in her squinting and smiling eyes, she appeared to be filled with a goodness too great to behold. "May this be the darkest winter that travels to our door, so we all have many hours to know each other."

Indeed, when nightfall came, time slowed its pace, letting the course of the evening unwind minutes into moments. Though the winter solstice is not known as a season of growing, each night fed the seeds of fondness and loving regard the three women felt blossoming by the hearth of their new family.

Each evening passed with the same rituals. Once Faith arrived hot from the change, Daisy dressed her. Daisy constructed simple but tasty meals from their meager larder, while Faith applied her childhood lessons in carpentry to repair a chair, rehang a shelf, or seal the windows that let in the frigid winter air seep in. After Daisy tucked their kind mother into the rocking chair that Faith had righted, she insisted that Faith join her on the bench by the fire, requiring the princess to assist her with the mending of clothes, curtains, and a seemingly endless supply of blankets.

"What treat do you have for me tonight?" Faith's patience ended before the owls could begin their hunting calls.

"Apologies, my princess, I had no time to bake." Daisy dared not meet her old mother's look for fear it would make her laugh as it always did when Faith began their game, or as Faith liked to call it, the hunt for sweet salvation.

"I suffer an endless curse. Half beast, half helpless maiden. I suffer, how I suffer. Only one gift I ever ask of this world to ease my pain. Ah, a piece of nut bread, a sliver of cake." Faith crossed to the hearth's mantle, burying her face in the crook of her arm as she leaned against it.

"There are no sweets for you. Sadly, your suffering must continue, my poor princess-beast." Daisy set her sewing aside, clearing the path as she launched herself off the bench towards Faith, hands free to tickle the princess.

However, Faith had grown so much stronger since the curse had taken her. Faith easily pulled the maid into her lap as she returned to her seat on the bench. "Do you seek my wrath?" Faith raised her free hand and spun her fingers in the familiar dance. "Do you surrender?"

"Never!" Daisy's eyes widened as she watched Faith's dancing fingers descend, navigating their way through the folds of her dress to tickle her. Daisy shook with giggling, and Faith persisted until Daisy gasped for air, burying her face in her princess' neck, begging her to stop.

"Surrender?" Faith stayed her hand on Daisy's belly. Daisy breathed heavily into the princess' ear, unable to speak. A sudden light-headedness seized Faith, but she remembered her script as she ordered, her voice thick, "Produce my boon."

Daisy extracted a wrapped offering from her apron's pocket and placed a bit of the sugar cake on Faith's waiting tongue. Faith moaned with exaggerated delight at the reward as she rocked the maid in her embrace.

Daisy found it strangely sad when she fed the last bite to Faith. She found it stranger still that she did not have the will to meet the princess' gaze as she pulled herself out of Faith's lap, dusting the crumbs off her apron as she stood. She retrieved the cakes she'd baked for her mother and herself, and after teasing Faith with a second piece, she rejoined her on the bench where they enjoyed dessert by the waning fire.

When the night slipped into lengthy quiet pauses and softer voices, Daisy led the princess to the narrow bed they shared. Faith stretched along the length of Daisy, easily folding the maid into the warmth of her. The whisper of Faith's breath on Daisy's neck sent a shiver through her that wasn't chilled at all. Even still, Daisy clutched the blanket to her, waiting for sleep to come.

#

Winter could not last forever. The season's cycle proved stronger than any magical wish. TTThe snow melted and the scent of green returned to the air. Villagers welcomed the return of the longer days as they greeted neighbors and traded stories, often colored by words eager for new ears to hear them. Hunter's tales of the white deer traveled from home to home, transforming the creature into a beast of legend, of mythic size and strength. The woods themselves became the territory of fairies and witches, too dangerous to explore as the frost still held its sway in the morning light. Had not a maid been lost there when the winter came too soon? Had not a princess died under the hoof of that very beast?

Word reached King Warlock. His hunters had failed this past season in their collection of venison and bear, and he grew tired of dried fish and pork. For their part, the hunting party offered only excuses about being plagued by creatures that they were unable to kill. Creatures no doubt led by this unearthly White Stag.

Warlock tugged at the belt that held his royal purple raiment to him. He let the heavy woolen garb fall to the floor as he lifted the crown off his thick black hair. His midnight locks draped to his shoulders, casting a strange shadow against his pale flesh. He had spent too much of this winter inside. Little sign remained of any winter fat on his muscular form; he felt as strong and as ready for the release of the new season as any caged man could. He tired at the thought of another day spent in the company of advisors and tradesmen in the stuffy halls of his castle. He swiveled on one heel at the sound of water being disturbed. His features relaxed as he met Lord Converse's gaze, waiting at the entry of his bath.

"As it pleases Your Majesty." Lord Converse bowed, beckoning the king to take his place by the tub.

Warlock reposed on top of his bathing robes next to the tub while Converse washed his legs and back. As Converse's strong hands kneaded Warlock's stiff back, the young king flexed his arms and stretched.

"I was to be married this spring," he yawned. "But that foolish princess had to die rather than finish the journey. And that wretched Lady Weed and her sour-faced daughter, showing up here, daring to pretend to be royalty in her place! As if I'm blind, as if I'm a fool!"

Lady Weed's plot to pass her gaunt and gangly daughter as the lovely Princess Faith had been misconceived at best. Converse himself delivered the two disgraced ladies to the dungeon upon the revelation of their villainy.

"I do not envy any man who must take such news back to the parents of so fair a maiden." Converse blinked at the flash of memory of the queen's desperate wail as he delivered the news of Lady Weed's betrayal, of Princess Faith's death in the daylight. "I should have stayed with the escort rather than racing ahead. I regret my impatience every day." Converse ran the cloth over the King's exposed leg in thoughtful contemplation. "Some men say she became this white stag. Some men say they saw her change. Do you think it possible?"

"Fairy tales! Since when do my people believe in fairy tales? What's next, the fishermen come back and say they can't catch fish because mermaids cut the lines? My bravest men retreat from the field because they might upset a fairy asleep on a toadstool?" The King laughed at the idea he conjured up.

Converse echoed Warlock's laugh. "Would your majesty like to hunt the stag?"

The King considered the question. It had been some time since he had gone on a hunt. He felt the lingering desire in him to draw back an arrow and feel the quickening release. The satisfying sound of the shaft hitting its mark rang in his memory. "Make it known to the hunters that no one is to hunt in the stag's glade. Let him get fat and comfortable. I will hunt him in a fortnight. You shall be my only companion, Converse. We will keep our own vigil."

Converse's mouth spread into a wide smile. The King rolled over on to his back, giving a nod of assent for Converse to continue.

"As your lordship pleases."

#

"How early is it?" Daisy found herself waking at the darkest hour of night. Daisy heard the slide of fabric against skin as Faith pulled the nightdress off. As a habit, Faith left her linen shift at the foot of the bed before she made her way out of the cottage. The princess avoided a transformation inside the home and refused to risk ruining one of her few outfits as well. "It's not time yet, is it?"

"Soon." Faith laughed in her sad way. "I can feel the time is close."

"Let it be night a little longer." Daisy reached for her princess and her hand found the naked flesh of Faith's waist. She started to draw her hand away, but Faith's hand held Daisy to her.

"Sh." Faith's request for silence was impossible to meet. Daisy'sheart thundered inside her. Faith moved again, and Daisy, reflexively, gave Faith's waist a squeeze. Faith bent over Daisy, the heat of her body close, calling to the maid's own.

"Stay." Daisy wished, but that wasn't her truest wish. She wanted her princess closer still, under those blankets, their bodies tangled in linen, until flesh found flesh again. Daisy's breath caught in her throat.

Faith kissed Daisy's forehead as she lifted Daisy's hand from her waist. "I must go, my sweet." Faith's words were barely a whisper. Perhaps the change had already begun and she hadn't expected to say them at all. Faith rushed from the room, the ghostly presence of her kiss lingering on Daisy's head.

Tears fell unwelcome and unheeded from Daisy as she pushed back at that terrible ache that squeezed her body, causing her to want beyond hope to hear her princess say those words to her again: "My sweet." But the words wilted in their intensity with the coming of dawn, and as the morning sun gathered around the cottage, Daisy shook herself of the dream she knew was hers alone.

#

Daisy spent her days in the close comfort of her dear old mother, for this is how she truly regarded their kind benefactress. The old woman never spoke a word about magic. But everyday with a knowing nod, she packed a basket of food and led Daisy to a meadow hidden deep in the forest. This place lay more hidden than the cottage, and there under a great hemlock tree, they passed hours under the evergreen branches.

The woman shared her knowledge of the powers hidden in nature. In this meadow, it was never quite winter or summer, rather a season of its own. The air itself felt different on Daisy's flesh and in her lungs. When she went to this place, she experienced a peculiar sensation of glitteriness that suffused her in a way that she imagined fairies must feel all the time. Her mind and heart became open to her good mother's teaching. Her mother kept the measure of each lesson and the day. When the lesson ended and the day began to dress in the pinks and oranges of the dying light, she followed the ritual of sacred parting by clasping Daisy's hands in hers, kissing each of the maid's fingers. Daisy frowned at the lesson's end as she helped her mother up to her feet once more.

"A little more time, please mother."

"Time calls us home." Her old mother reached up and pinched Daisy's soft cheek in her fingers. "You would not wish to be late for our 'deer' one."

Daisy rolled her eyes at her mother's often repeated play on words. Her old mother barked a laugh at her tired joke. "Don't let the princess hear you say that."

"I think she'd rather hear you say it than I."

Daisy shook her head at her mother's teasing. "Come along my sweet mad mother. Let us go back to our cozy den."

"You know the path home better than I." Her good mother clutched Daisy's arm for support. She grew weaker as the winter slowly lost its command of the land and sky.

"I have a good teacher. I see the path like a sparkling trail of stardust stretching before us, a silver river."

"And you see other paths as well?"

Daisy cast a look around her. "Indeed, you are right mother. There flows a stream of red. It leads to a village, or at least to people, perhaps they are kind. The red glows like a warm heart."

"And another?"

"Here, one of bright green." Daisy laughed. "It leads to a lake."

"Why do you laugh at this vision?"

"I see two lovers there. They have stolen away. They think no one sees them."

"A common enough practice in my day." The old woman laughed as well, perhaps at her own mischievous memories. "Look again, my dear, you have stronger eyes than me."

A coldness gripped Daisy's heart as she tracked a royal purple trail. She felt as if a thousand wasps stung her skin, and she fell to her knees as she heaved for breath.

The woman knelt by her, running her hand over Daisy's hair. The motion sent a wave of calm through the poor suffering girl.

"A hunter." Daisy coughed. "He hunts my..." Daisy caught herself, had she wanted to say 'love'? She had neither the hope nor the station to desire such an esteemed place. She corrected herself, disguising her almost error with a heavy sigh, "my princess."

"He hunts with one other." The old woman followed the vision as well. "He has a strong passion to win his prize."

"He'll kill her."

"His wish is to kill the stag." The old woman helped Daisy back to her feet. "But the day is late enough, and soon there will be no stag to seek. And I see a very hungry princess waiting naked on our front step, if we stay here."

The woman's words worked their spell and roused Daisy out of her terrible distraction. They made their way home.

Evening took its time finding them. Daisy prepared the evening meal, tidied the rooms, built a fire, and swept the floors. She twice washed the table and cabinetry, and still she found time to sweep the path that led to the cottage door.

No respite came as the sun set. There was no knock on the door. Daisy told herself she would not cry, not yet. She grabbed a lantern and held it aloft as she paced up and down the cottage path. She peered into the dusk shrouded trees, seeking visions of trails to tell her how to find her princess. But only shadows danced around her.

"You cannot search in this way." Daisy had not heard the woman approach. She dropped the lantern, but deftly caught it again before it could strike the ground.

"Please mother. How can I find her?"

"She will return. Trust in that. Come inside and wait with me by the fire."

When the woman settled Daisy by the hearth, she rapped her knuckles on the mantle and a cloud of ash stirred up from beneath the flames. The cloud curled into a butterfly's delicate shape before flitting up the chimney, setting out on an unspoken mission.

"She will be home soon."

Daisy knew the woman to be true. "I must be as you, mother. I must know these ways."

"The cost is too high for you. You cannot have my path without giving up your own."

"I have no path to speak of, except to serve."

"And to love."

Daisy turned away from the woman. A breeze stirred the curtain that hid the bed Faith and she shared. Daisy saw a vision of Faith standing next to the bed, her nightdress gathered in her hands. Daisy blinked away the phantom sight.

The old woman called her back. "You are worthy of such a love in return."

"Mother, I know my place in the world."

"You know the place where man has put you, but you must unlearn that, if you dare to find your true path. That path, my child, will not betray you."

Daisy drank in the old mother's words even as she was not quite sure what they meant. She knew she must puzzle them out, but there as she contemplated the flames, she heard that familiar step on the porch, followed by a rapid knock.

Daisy flung open the door and captured her poor mistress in her arms. Faith, naked, damp with sweat, panting from the long chase.

"A hunter... the King himself... all day." Words she managed to breathe out as her heart raced, beating mad against her chest. Daisy shushed and ran her hands over Faith's head, as her mother had taught her, trying to restore a calm back to the woman bent in her arms.

"I will draw her a milk bath. This will give her some strength." The old woman set to filling a copper tub with warm water and milk powder.

"I can help." Daisy made the offer, but her princess clutched at Daisy, still seeking a steady breath. Daisy rocked Faith in her arms, whispering calm words to her.

When the bath was ready, she helped Faith into the nourishing tub. The old woman had made a paste of herbs and gave the bowl to Daisy to feed the princess. Daisy swept up two fingers full of the restorative and held the healing concoction to Faith's mouth.

Faith welcomed the much-needed sustenance that began to restore her. As Daisy's fingers slipped over her lips, she also felt a curious weakness travel through her belly. When she looked up to meet Daisy's gaze, her tongue played across Daisy's fingers. Daisy's cheeks flushed a rising pink, and Faith felt the girl's fingers tremble on her lips. Faith opened her mouth, embarrassed at the pleasure she had found there, and yet she longed for the feeling to return.

"Perhaps I need more," Faith suggested.

"Perhaps you are strong enough already."

A pleasant buzz stirred within Faith. She submerged herself in the tub. She raised her head above the milky water, and Daisy smiled back at her. Faith leaned toward the maid, reaching for Daisy's hand, but Daisy placed the bowl solidly in Faith's palm.

"Finish the rest, as you like." Daisy nodded as she crossed to their room.

Faith barely caught the bowl in her grip as she watched Daisy retreat. She smiled at the girl's escape. Even though Daisy hadn't complied with Faith's wish, Faith knew in that instant that Daisy desired the same.

Daisy stood only a few feet away in the confines of their small room, but at least she had left the princess' company before Faith could unravel her with another glance. Daisy felt her whole self betraying her heart in every look and touch. She had been so close to saying the wrong words to the old woman, and now she stood on the precipice of surrendering her very soul to the woman she was indentured to serve.

#

Warlock collapsed in the tent. The chase had taken its toll, and he weakly pulled the bearskin blanket over his panting form. Converse cooked their evening meal over a small fire he had built at the entrance of their tent. Warlock listened to the good man's voice, but Converse's words defied taking any shape that Warlock could recognize. He heard something about food and felt the wineskin flop on his belly when Converse tossed it to him. Warlock drank the red elixir, savoring the soothing balm it sent through his aching body.

Converse brought a spoonful of the rabbit stew to Warlock's mouth, and the rich aroma stirred his appetite. Warlock tucked into the stew, and soon he rose, rejuvenated and laughing at the thrill of the hunt.

"I know its rhyme and reason. And tomorrow I will have that stag's head at our table. Brilliant, wasn't it? Did you manage to catch a glimpse of it? The antlers almost looked silver in the light."

"A flash of white is all. I thought it best to keep my eye on the path and where we went."

"Sensible man, wise friend." King Warlock slapped Converse's back in fond appreciation. He kept his hand on Converse's broad shoulder, enjoying the company of his most loyal man. "You always keep me on the right path."

"Suppose it is the princess, your lordship. What might you risk if you take the stag's head and find rather than a prize, you have a child bride's bloodied gold locks at your feet?"

Warlock withdrew his hand. The image Converse conjured up startled him. "There is no proof that the girl is that beast, and even still, if she is so cursed, who's to say she doesn't bring that evil to our country? This magic cannot be trusted or believed. Pah! Listen to me, magic, curses, evil, I talk like a simple farmer who prays to the Fairy Queen to make his vegetables grow. I should strike any man who invents such tales to cloud our more rational minds."

"I only wish to counsel, not to upset you. We have both seen events in battle that cannot be explained by sensible minds..."

"Stories that should go no further than those dark days." Warlock's voice sharpened in warning.

"Sire, I know you have a true and gentle spirit. If we allow that there is a possibility of truth to the legend, then you risk being the villain of this tale. Even the strongest warrior weeps when he takes the life of an innocent when it can be avoided."

Converse's words stirred a strong feeling in Warlock; in another man's company, rage might have made its presence known. But Warlock felt a kinship to this kind man who could see all the parts of his soul, even those he endeavored to bury deep within him.

Warlock leaned into his good friend's shoulder. "The wine softens my resolve," he whispered into Converse's chest. Converse stretched his arm across Warlock's back, holding them close. Warlock treasured the press of muscle that grounded him to this earthly plane.

"I trust my prince will know when its time to show mercy." Converse set their wineskin and bowls aside as Warlock reclined back on the blankets. Converse pursed his lips and blew out the lantern's dying light. Warlock sighed deeply as the night's air feathered lightly over his flesh.

#

Daisy's dream formed from a mist of memory. A vision played before her of a past that was both hers and not her own as she stepped into the scene. She stood in the former royal garden of the palace above ground. The sun shone with an unnatural intensity over the setting; the heat laid waste to the roses that wilted as they burned. The light also illuminated a crown that shimmered even as it hurled on its course toward Daisy. Daisy dodged the diamond-encrusted tiara, and it clanged against the gray stone that lined the opening of the well. For a moment it rolled along the edge before it dropped into the depths of the well. A young woman ran past Daisy, weeping as she collapsed at the well's edge. She pounded the stone with her small fists, as her tears rolled down her delicate, royal visage, so much like her daughter's. Daisy recognized, but could not quite believe her vision of the queen, Faith's mother. But this was a time before there was a Faith, a time before the queen had become a mother.

Daisy knew in her heart that this was the wishing day of legend. This day the queen made her desperate plea for a child, and the well responded with a gurgle, grunt and splelch. At the water's surface, a large ungainly shrimp with a woman's head rose. Daisy heard no speech but knew the shrimp was the Well Fairy and that she offered to take the queen to a land that no man had ever seen before.

The shrimp then floated out of the well and transformed into a beautiful young woman. The fairy shimmered in a silver dress that reflected like the mirrored surface of the water she had emerged from. The discovered diamond crown rested on her lovely head of fiery red hair. The queen accepted the fairy's nearly translucent hand, quite readily, and Daisy, not to be lost to the story's unfolding, clutched a corner of the Well Fairy's dress. When her hands touched the hem, she found that the material was woven fish-scales, blinking shades of blue, purple and pink as the light touched them.

The world collapsed under the weight of its own existence, and the three stood in a land that glittered with gemstones. The air held a potent smell of magic, a seeming tang of mint and a twist of pine hung about them. For a moment, Daisy thought the Well Fairy perceived her, but that could not be, Daisy assured herself, it was only a dream.

The fairy led the queen through this marvelous otherworldly place, and Daisy followed a few steps behind. The path formed at the feet of the two women, unrolling before them in a carpet woven out of emeralds. Peculiar small silver birds sang and spun in the air around them, providing a gay dance in the air as they flew about in practiced patterns. The land appeared expansive, but when Daisy focused on the horizon it felt as though all she had to do was reach out and the edge of the world would be at her fingertips. She would swear this world felt as fragile as though she were in a glass bubble and one sudden sharp move could cause it all to burst and send them all tumbling to the dull burnt world they had left behind.

The queen walked arm-in-arm with the Well Fairy as if they had been friends for many lifetimes, reunited after many generations apart, and Daisy felt the truth of this as the thought came to her. The Well Fairy bore a great love for the queen, but had sacrificed her love for the power she wielded from any slight tip of her hand, the quiet utterance of a few words.

The veil that masked the truth lifted, and the queen remembered their love. The queen wept at the loss of love, laughed at its rekindling, and then just as fleetingly, forgot the love in its entirety. Perhaps that stolen moment was enough to last the Well Fairy another lifetime as she granted the queen her wish for a child. The Well Fairy placed a kiss on the young queen's brow as she pressed her hand to the queen's cheek, brushing away the remains of any tears left there. The queen blinked at the caress and smiled as her belly grew under the Well Fairy's touch, but an ancient pact for magic chosen over love prevented her from hearing the affectionate words the Well Fairy spoke to her. Six young fairies arrived with flowers as gifts and bestowed them all on the queen. Once the last flower settled in the queen's hand, the illusion shifted, and Daisy found herself back in the palace she knew.

The queen held her baby and received the gifts from each of the six fairies in exchange for the return of their safeguarded flowers. But the spell that lingered over the queen made her forget the Well Fairy, so no invitation had been sent to the one who had made the special day a reality. The Well Fairy erupted from the depths of her watery kingdom, taking her anger out on the young babe sheltered in the queen's arms. The curse was made against daylight, against the babe's frightened cry, against a love never to return no matter how many spells the Well Fairy chanted. A baby doomed to live in shadow mirrored the life the Well Fairy was exiled to, forgotten and lost to the light of memory.

No sooner were the words spoken than made true, and when the Well Fairy turned to leave, she met Daisy's observing gaze. Daisy no longer doubted the Well Fairy was aware of her. As the Well Fairy approached Daisy, age crept over her form, making her whither, contort, and wrinkle before Daisy's eyes. Teeth tumbled from her mouth. Hands creaked back into claws, and her spine twisted and bent the Well Fairy toward the earth. Daisy saw standing before her that dear old mother, her enchantress, her savior.

Her old mother placed her hand on Daisy's own in that familiar way that Daisy had come to know these winter months.

"Be careful of words, wishes, and dreams. Be careful of what you hope for, say, and never dare to say. But most of all, be true, Daisy. If you are true, no harm will ever come to you or the one you love." The old woman's words echoed in the darkness as Daisy felt herself thrust from the dream. She awoke with a start, facing the hearth, tripping out of the rocking chair.

Faith caught Daisy in her arms before the poor maid landed in the fire. "Bad dream?"

Daisy shook the sleep from her. "You're here."

"The time for change comes soon, but not so soon. You had not come to bed, so I sought you out. I hope..." Faith released Daisy as she dropped her hands to her sides. "I hope I have not offended you."

Daisy wrung her own hands together, keeping her gaze bent to the floor. "Let us go to bed now. You should rest. Better, you should stay here tomorrow until the hunter gives up his chase. I can keep you safe."

The princess laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "There is no safe place for me. When I am a wild creature, I am truly wild. I cannot stay here. Do you not know me at all?"

Daisy felt the cut of Faith's reproach, but rather than drawing blood or tears, Daisy surged with her own bite. "Know you? Do you honestly accuse me of not knowing you? Forgive me or not, my lady, but I do think that offering sound advice to keep you on this earth for a while longer is no reason for you to act so... spoilt! As spoilt as a rotten apple."

The insult did not come naturally to Daisy as she had been trained in the art of gentler speech. Faith lost her anger as she giggled at Daisy's awkwardly delivered retort. She embraced Daisy, seeking forgiveness in her arms.

Daisy refused to respond in kind as she stayed firm in her indignation. Faith touched her friend's face, her shoulders, pushed Daisy only far enough away from her so she could meet her eyes before drawing Daisy back to her chest. Daisy kept her arms locked to her sides, turning her face away from Faith's soft kisses on her cheek.

"As spoilt as an apple? Am I so rotten?"

"On a mid-winter's day."

Faith laced her fingers through Daisy's. She lifted Daisy's hand to her mouth and placed a kiss on the back of it. She followed with a second kiss and then did the same with Daisy's other hand, but she saw her dearest was unmoved by her caresses. "Did I do the ritual of reprieve incorrectly?"

Daisy blushed from the closeness of Faith, but managed to pull herself away. "It is not granted."

Faith looked at the young maid's downturned expression, and she felt the desperate desire to have her friend look upon her once more in kindness. Faith felt tears burn at the edge of her vision as the words came to her. She concentrated her effort on holding back those tears as she clutched Daisy to her chest, so the young maid would not catch sight of any that might escape.

"Forgive me, dearest. I spoke, yes, as a rotten child, forgetting how true a friend you have always been to me. I do not know how I am worthy of such a love as yours." Faith paused at the trueness of her own words; hadn't she meant to say 'friendship' and not 'love'? She felt as though her soul stumbled about like a helpless fawn, unsteady on new legs. One look, one word from Daisy could strike as deadly as the wolf in this world, ending the life that sought refuge in this maid's arms. Was Faith to betray her own guarded heart simply because of the alteration that stirred within her when Daisy was pressed against her chest? Faith cleared her throat to right the course of her words. However, her voice eluded her as she felt Daisy sigh into her neck.

"Don't run," Daisy whispered as she wrapped her arms around Faith's slim waist. "Stay. Let a friend's love keep you forever safe."

Faith felt the heat that preceded the change rise within her, but no, that could not be. Sunrise was hours off. The sensation that traveled through her body terrified her with its intensity. It was stronger than the magic that contorted her frame each predawn and at the setting of the sun.

Faith pushed herself back from Daisy; a flush crept up her face as tears fell freely. Daisy's hands cupped Faith's cheeks, thumbs catching each falling tear and sweeping them away. Faith's lips trembled at her attempt to form words. She wished Daisy to say something to break the spell weaving a tight cord around her heart. Then Faith dropped her fear as she tugged at that cord. The wildness that she had known all these months had taught her many new traits that she enjoyed. Risk held its own reward, and she pushed the image of the hesitant princess off the path that kept her hiding in the shadows. This new feeling drew her out like the sun drew out her animal soul. She pulled Daisy back to her.

Daisy's mouth pressed urgently against hers in a kiss that sparkled and caught in the energy between them. Faith played her lips modest but searching, but as Daisy's tongue teased at them, she parted her mouth and welcomed the deeper kiss that called out the wild within her. She wanted to devour this woman in her arms, feel her flesh against hers, hot and damp with sweat. She saw the image of the two of them wrapped in each other's naked forms, rocking against each other in pleasure she wanted to know. The vision shook before her mind's eye then shattered into so many pieces like glass struck by a stone's blow.

Daisy pulled back, left her wanting, retreated from the kiss, her arms. The maid stood by the hearth, staring into the remains of the fire.

"It means nothing if you leave me." Daisy compelled herself to bring her breathing back into some measure of control. She had seen what the princess envisioned for them. She anchored her hand on the mantle as a weakness clutched her body. She pushed the vivid scene away from her mind's eye. The vision called to her, begged her to surrender to the princess, but Daisy had seen another vision too, one of love lost and irrevocable pain. The legacy of that pain brought about a vicious curse that destroyed the two who had once professed the truest love to each other. Daisy held firm to the wall, speaking nothing, not trusting any word that might escape her lips.

Faith wanted to fill the air between them with promises. But she sensed the wolf on the path between them; the imagined creature was eager to close his fangs around her heart, and wasn't it there exposed in Faith's outstretched hands? Daisy turned away from the offering, preferring to look upon the fire than her love. The princess retreated to her shadow palace, hidden from the sun once more. Faith swung the door open to the cottage and entered the night. She pulled at the nightdress, welcoming the cool air to temper her flesh. She made no oaths she had no power to keep.

#

When Daisy woke, she regarded the emptiness of the cottage with no surprise. She swept the floors that were already clear. She washed clean cabinets. She pinched her finger on a window's clasp and stared silently at the blood that bubbled around the scrape. She returned to her room and permitted herself to cry a few tears. She washed her face, put on her cloak and joined her mother in the secret meadow under the great hemlock tree. The path lay clear before her; she no longer needed a guide.

No words exchanged between them, only a look of deep knowing, a knowing which weighed heavy in both their hearts.

Daisy knew the Well Fairy's regret as keenly as her own. Daisy knew the anxious guilt that had aged the Well Fairy a hundred years or more. Daisy knelt before the old woman and took those aged hands in her own slender ones.

"I offer the world nothing." Daisy spoke the words and smoke spilled from her mouth. The shape of it hovered between them like a swarm of gnats who stumbled in the air restlessly with no ability to land.

Her old mother swept her hand through the air, scattering the cloud. The air was clear once more.

"I have cursed both our loves." The Well Fairy's words slithered out from her mouth in the form of a cobra. Daisy had heard tales of these diamond-caped snakes from far-off lands, and she saw by its menacing form made real that the Well Fairy's admission had been truer than her own. Daisy took the snake by its throat. The cobra hissed and slashed at her, but its fangs could find no purchase. Daisy snapped its neck, and it fell on the ground between them.

"You are my true mother." The air around them grew fragrant with the smell of spring flowers.

The Well Fairy returned her gaze to Daisy. "You shall be my true daughter." As she spoke the words, her face softened, wrinkles evened out, and a youth she had lost long ago began to discover its way across her visage. She cringed at the sharp return of teeth, almost sneezed as her nose tickled back and up to her face, a mole fell deliberate and solid from its tip. The strands of white hair became full and red once more, curling long over her shoulders. The transformation made the fairy dizzy, as she blinked away the wooziness as her vision cleared. A glow permeated her skin, and as she felt her old bones grow strong, she found herself clutching Daisy's hand. She rose up to standing without aid and managed to lift Daisy up to stand beside her.

Daisy squinted at the enchantress' great beauty; indeed, she bore a loveliness befitting a fairy queen.

"Will you also leave me?" Daisy's voice cracked as she saw the truth of it.

The Well Fairy had grown taller, and she looked down at the pretty maid with her beneficent smile. "My child, you have restored me, broken the curse I laid upon myself, and now I must return to my kingdom in the beyond. They shall need their queen. But you have not lost anyone, as long as you remember my teachings."

Daisy let the tears fall freely now. "Mother, I cannot trust a love that can never be returned."

The Well Fairy frowned at Daisy's words.

But before she could speak her wisdom, Daisy spoke again. "I'm sorry, mother. I remember the lesson well. If my love is true, I can give mine freely with no price or expectation in return."

The Well Fairy placed her hand on Daisy's forehead, and with her touch, Daisy felt as if a crown sat upon her own head, flooding her mind with all the world's knowledge.

"That, my dear daughter, is the lesson you taught me. May my gifts to you be worth a fraction of what you have restored in me." The Well Fairy turned her head at some faraway sound, a vision unseen. "Now you must go. Find your true path and if you are as virtuous and strong as I know you to be, you will find your life's reward at the end of it."

"Is she in danger?" Daisy thought the Well Fairy's change in demeanor was a warning, but the Well Fairy did not answer. She sank into the rays of light that sent columns of gold dust through the meadow. "But how can I break her curse?" Daisy cried out, but the Well Fairy had vanished, a shadow lost in a world she never belonged in.

#

Faith crouched behind the massive boulder that shielded her from so many arrows. She heard the King's howl and call from the forest scrub below.

I have the high ground, she thought ruefully even as she gazed down at the arrow that pierced her front right flank. The arrow wasn't lodged so deeply. She felt the muscle twist beneath the tip, but even still, it clung to her side and created a trail of blood that would summon the wolves later, assuming she outwitted and escaped the King.

She heard rocks tumble down the steep slope as the King and his loyal emissary Converse attempted an approach up the scree field.

She held power enough in her legs to leap and bound down upon them, humbling both young hunters with hobbled legs. But that move would take the gambit that neither man had the presence of mind to rear back from his perch and take aim at her. She'd be exposed, an easy target for as many arrows as they managed to let loose in the sparse seconds it would take her to reach them.

She could continue up over the mountain's face. This boulder shielded her and would continue to do so for some part of her ascent, but would it be enough? By the time she found footing in the open again, would she be beyond the strongest arm's range? With her back to the hunters, she would never see the deathblow when it came, and perhaps that would be a kindness she could give to the frightened human soul that hid beneath the leathery hide of her animal spirit.

"Your Majesty! Watch your footing!" Converse called out his warning to the adrenalin-addled monarch. Warlock sensed victory in the bloodstains they found on the rocks under each hand and foothold.

But Warlock ignored the warning and slipped along the loose rocks; he slid a few feet, the unforgiving rock fall tearing at his hunter's jerkin and then his flesh. A skull-size rock struck his hand that had clung stubbornly to his bow. Warlock had chosen to keep the bow in his hand rather than bear it on his back for the climb. His bow snapped as it caught the brunt of the rock's force, but far worse was the crack that reverberated through his hand. His wrist hung limply as he yelped in sudden pain.

Converse traversed the scree field like man become mountain goat. He landed at Warlock's side to arrest his slide any further down the slope.

Warlock rolled in agony. "Get my bow! Or give me yours. Bind my hand to it! This hunt is not over." For it was his bracing hand that had broken, but Warlock felt sure in his talent that if the gods showed any favor to him at all, they would grant him one more chance to launch the killing arrow at that unearthly white stag.

"I am more convinced, sire, that this beast is the cursed princess. Please, I swear I heard its cry, and it was not the sound a creature like that should make."

"Your bow, my lord," Warlock ordered through gritted teeth.

Converse bound the bow to Warlock's broken hand, righting it so that the arrow could be notched and aimed. He helped Warlock up to his knees to anchor himself for as steady a shot as he could manage.

"If this beast is the princess, then may my arrow never find its mark. But if the beast be demon, then all gods grant me the strength to bring an end to its days. Face me beast and leave the heavens to judge us both!"

Warlock's taunt reached Faith's ears. She had ascended partway up the slope, still safely sheltered by the boulder's girth. His words angered her; she considered returning to trample him as the demon-beast he accused her of being. She had chosen the path of mercy, one that he had never shown her.

But as she considered the vision of crushing the young lord, she saw instead the scene by the fire, Daisy turned from her, refusing her. Maybe what Warlock proposed wasn't so foolish. If he missed, she could prove to herself that there was something left of good in her, and if the gods chose her to die today, perhaps that was also as it should be. She may be demon. Who is to know the breadth of the curse that coursed through her blood and bone? She only knew that despite feeling the trueness of Daisy's love in her kiss that Faith had refused to give her dearest the one thing Daisy desired – Faith.

Perhaps there was nothing left of the princess she once was. Only this beast that ruined her, rather, and the girl inside was lost to all good things the world could offer. Hers was a half-life of wildness and weakness. She refused to hide any longer. She stepped out from behind the cover of the great stone. She held herself motionless and open. Her bloody flank facing down the slope, like a bright red target against her white coat. She found Warlock's kingly brow; she lowered her head to meet the squint that focused on the wound he had already delivered.

"Look at her, Warlock. Please. She is royal blood." Converse's voice cracked with pity, and tears wet his cheeks. "I beg you."

The arrow strained against the bow. Warlock grimaced as pain ricocheted through his broken hand, up his arm, to his very heart.

"We ask the gods to judge us this day." Warlock took aim.

A shiver trembled through her entire frame. Faith hadn't seen the arrow launch, but all the same, she stumbled back as though struck. She stepped a leg back to steady herself on the rocks, but she felt no hoof on the ground, but rather her palm, flat on the sun-warmed stone. A violent quake gripped her body as the change took her. The arrow that had hung loosely from her right shoulder, fell free as her muscles contracted into her female human form. White coat sloughed off her like an unwanted cloak, pooling at her feet.

Warlock saw a flash of burning white light before his eyes. He blamed the pain stalking through his body, so he let his arrow fly before he lost consciousness. But as it flew, he realized too late that it hadn't been the pain at all but a star of bright light that had consumed the creature above him. He watched in horror as the stag transformed into human form. The arrow arced in the air. Converse hid his head in Warlock's shoulder, but Warlock refused to close his eyes. He had made his deal with the gods or devils that held the hunt in their hands that day.

Faith stood in the full light of day. She raised her arms up to the sun, heedless of her naked form. Every cell in her body swam toward that light. Without thought, an instinctual twitch tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. Her hands clasped before her, and she found herself holding the shaft of the arrow. Its stone tip rested above her bare breast, aimed true for her heart. Nonetheless, she captured it there before it could break flesh, and from the arrow, she saw a glowing tail emerge from it in a trail of vivid yellow light. The sparkling trail of fairy dust traveled down the mountain, twisted over and around the two hunters, and ended at the bottom of the scree field in the open hands of a young maid.

There, tracing and spinning in the air around her, the gold dust swirled around Daisy. Daisy waved her hand in the dazzle and shine, and Faith dropped the arrow. Faith blinked and found herself next to Daisy. No longer naked, Faith wore a silvery white hunter's jerkin. She smiled at the familiar feel of the finely tooled leather, reminiscent of her wild self but reassuringly still her human form underneath it. Daisy stood dazed and lost in her own spell. Faith knelt before her, taking the maid's hands in her own.

"My fairy love, queen of my heart, if you'll forgive this fool, if you can find a place in your soul for her, she offers you her love. She offers you herself forever."

Daisy woke from her magical reverie as she gazed into the eyes of the woman hunter kneeling before her. Faith placed her lips on Daisy's open palm, and Daisy saw the vision there that she swore to make real: their hearts entwined, their cottage home, their love forever true.

Jess Martin is a playwright by training and co-founded and co-created with Queer Soup Theater for ten years in Boston. Her plays have been produced around the New England area with a jaunt occasionally to the New York International Fringe Festival or a festival in South Dakota. After living overseas for the past four years, she returns to writing once more with an eye towards story-telling in the narrative form.

Snow White

Christina Rosso

I had just turned sixteen when my father brought my new mother home. She was only two years older than I. I didn't see how a teenage girl could rule a kingdom or be a mother to me. Nor did I need a mother. My own mother, sweet, kind Queen Raphaela, had not been in the grave more than six months when my father married again.

He said he hadn't forgotten my mother, that he still loved her--he promised me this--but he continued, saying that a king had to have a queen. "What about me, Father? I can be your queen," I said. I puffed out my chest and tilted up my chin to seem older and more confident than I was.

"You, my little apple, cannot be my queen. Even if you're the fairest creature in the land." He pinched my round, pale cheeks as he always did. "A king needs a companion for more than just court affairs. You will be queen when I die, and shall have your own king to share this kind of relationship with."

I began to protest. My father cut me off, raising one hand in the air, and stroking his long, charcoal beard with the other the way someone pets a cat. "You'll understand when you're older, Snow White," he said.

And I did. By the time the snow-covered kingdom had melted to wet, green grass and budding plants and my seventeenth birthday had come and gone, I understood exactly what my father had meant. It just wasn't with a suitor that was acceptable for the Queen of Verena.

#

When I met my step-mother I immediately noticed her exquisite, yet eerie beauty. Her hair was dark as a moonless night just like mine, but hers had a blue shine to it, and it always appeared wet. The long strands of hair wound together like dozens of garden snakes. Unlike mine, her skin had a warm glow to it. Since my birth, my skin was compared to a fresh snowfall, which is how I got my name. What was so interesting about my step-mother's complexion is I'd never seen anyone with a sun kissed one before; everyone in our kingdom was fair skinned. Her eyes were a warm honey color, and I swear they sparkled as though there were tiny diamonds in them when the sunlight hit them. She looked much older than eighteen as though she'd seen many terrible things, but my father assured me she was a young girl just like myself. He said that in time I'd see her as a sister, if not a mother.

I remember thinking how quiet she was on that first day. I wondered if she was indeed a mute; that's how silent she was as my father went on and on about her family and how prosperous this match would be for both our kingdoms. My new step-mother's lips would part to speak, but then they'd press back together. Her face never showed any hint of a grin.In time I would learn that she was on edge as much as I and what she had given up to ensure her family's legacy. In time I would know she wasn't a mute at all, she simply had learned when silence was required.

"Pleased to meet you, Nadene." I bowed my head of black curls as I curtsied. My father kissed me on the forehead and took Nadene's hand in his, squeezing it tightly, before leaving us alone. I pushed up the sleeves of my dress. At Father's request, I had worn my finest dress, and it itched terribly. I placed my hands on my hips. "You can call me Snow," I said.

I watched her watch me. She resembled a rabbit or deer in the orchard waiting to see if you'll strike or leave them be. I pressed my cheeks into a smile to reassure her. After what seemed an eternity of silence, she whispered "Niddie." I asked her what she'd said, as it was inaudible. "I like to be called Niddie," she said slightly louder.

"It's nice to meet you, Niddie," I said.

A meek smile crossed her face. "You too, Snow."

#

Her first week with us, I showed Niddie the castle grounds and the ins and outs of the kingdom as my father had asked. I was explaining why he called me his little apple (because they were his favorite fruit and he said my round cheeks reminded him of the apples growing in the orchard) when she said, "I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

She looked left then right, the snakes in her hair jumping in front of her shoulders and then behind. "This." Her eyes searched mine for understanding. "I don't want to get married."

I felt my tongue alight with flames. "What's wrong with my father? He's kind and strong and powerful. He's the king."

She shook her head several times, making the snakes dance. "There's nothing wrong with him, but..."

There was something in the way her voice trembled as she spoke. Something familiar. It made the anger that had risen in my throat fade. "You don't love him," I said.

Her eyes dropped to the ground. "No, I don't."

In that moment, she became human to me. She seemed like a teenage girl. We became friends. Shortly thereafter, my father started saying we were like sisters, but something about that always seemed off to us.

A week later was the marriage ceremony. Niddie and I braided each other's hair into thick buns hanging from the nape of our necks. My father tried to steal a peek as I was pinning the veil above Niddie's nest of snake-like braids. The end of his black and gray beard curled around the open wooden door as he asked to see the two fairest girls in the land. "Father, you have to wait. I promise your bride is the fairest in the land today." And she was. My father rambled on about how youth possesses the most beauty and how full of nerves he was on the day of his wedding with my mother because she was the fairest in the land. "Until Snow White was born," he said.

"And until you met Nadene," I chimed in when I saw her expression. My soon-to-be-step-mother's face was full of sorrow and the whispers of wrinkles. My heart dropped, I had never seen anything so exquisite before.

I never asked Niddie if she thought she could grow to love my father in time. Not that day or any other. Though one day several months after the wedding she asked me if I'd ever been in love. We were having a picnic in the orchard. According to Niddie, my father had said picnics weren't fitting for queens, that she mustn't catch a cold, and she should focus on her stitching or planning the next ball. She replied that picnics were fitting for this queen, and that she would do her best to catch a cough as she didn't want to stitch or plan another ball. Then she walked down the corridor with her back to my father, the king, to my chambers to find me. Leaving him dumbfounded, no doubt. That was the thing about Niddie. She appeared so polite and timid, yet she could burn you with her wit whenever she pleased. When she got to my chambers that day, we ran to the kitchen giggling, grabbing cheeses and grapes and jam and a loaf of bread. Before we set out our spread, we picked several of the last apples of the season from the trees surrounding us.

I had just bitten into a large green apple when she asked if I'd ever been in love. I chewed on the acrimonious piece of fruit, letting the juices dribble down my chin as I mulled over the question. To be honest, it had caught me off guard. At this point in my life, romantic love remained mostly a foreign ideal. My soft, pink rose was just beginning to bloom; it had only been one year since I'd begun to bleed. "Of course," I finally said. She asked with whom. "Mother. Father." She replied that didn't count. I cleared my throat. "I had a dog once. A fluffy black and white one. He ran away one day and we never found him again."

Her forehead wrinkled. "I'm sorry to hear that. But that still doesn't count." She then asked if I'd ever met a person who made me feel special, and who I thought about constantly and wanted to be around all the time. "Someone you wanted to kiss," she said.

I knew my face was a horrible shade of crimson, the heat was practically rising from my cheeks like steam from a boiling kettle of tea. "No, I suppose not," I said. I pressed my reddened cheeks into a smile. "Have you?"

"Once. A servant at my father's castle." In a stutter, I asked if she'd kissed the person. She shook her head, the snakes dancing as they usually did. "Yes, but only once."

"Why?" I asked.

She sighed. "Because we were found out, and she was banished."

She? I thought to myself but didn't dare utter. "Why?" I said.

"Because she was a servant, and a she." She stated it so matter factly, as though anyone would understand this.

I nodded, even though I didn't understand. I asked if she knew where the servant girl was now. "She lives in a cottage in the woods. I gave her jewels to buy food and shelter, and she ended up working for and living with coal miners." I asked if she'd seen the servant girl since she was banished, to which Niddie shook her head no. "There was no time."

"Because of my father?"

She nodded. "Mhm. My parents couldn't let a tryst with a servant, and a female servant at that, deter their plans for me, and all the wealth they'd receive from the match with the King of Verena. Although, I do write to her sometimes; we've found ways to get messages to one another undetected. She's told me all about the coal miners and the cottage." She smiled. "It's apparently this charming, crooked little thing that always has smoke streaming strongly out of the chimney." She paused. "She seems happy."

"So you two still--?" I bit my lower lip.

"No, we're just friends now."

"What's her name?"

"Jacinda."

I modded several times. I couldn't wrap my mind around all of this. I had never known anyone who didn't love who they were supposed to. I loved my parents because they were my parents, and the king and queen. I loved my dog that ran away because my parents gave him to me. I always imagined I would love the man I married because my parents would choose him for me, and he would be my new king. It had never crossed my mind that I could find and choose someone to love outside the bounds of the court. I had never thought it might not be a man, or I could lose him or her because of my sovereignty and its requirements. "Do you think I'm going to marry some girl's father instead of someone I love?"

"Perhaps you'll get lucky and get the younger brother, the uncle."

At that we both burst into a fit of giggles. We rolled and laughed on the blanket, not caring about the jam and crumbs we were covering ourselves in. When our fit ended, we lay together, completely unkempt, half on the blanket, half on the earth, in total silence and stillness. It was the closest moment to perfection I'd ever experienced.

We wouldn't talk of love or kissing or any of those things until right before the vulture began to circle in the spring. However, I think in time Niddie did grow fond of my father and I believe he treated her kindly. Even so, that autumn and winter her bones shrank from his sweaty desperate touch. Her stomach remained flat, her hips narrow.

That year our kingdom was covered in a thick blanket of snow and ice with a wind so chilling no amount of firewood and stew could warm the castle or our people. As the food shortage grew, I watched the lines around my father's eyes and on his forehead deepen as his young wife's belly refused to swell with a prince. He knew a son could give the kingdom the hope it was deeply missing in this long, cruel winter.

The winter brought famine and death to our kingdom, as well as the vulture, better known as the Earl of Winchester, a man of prestige and vast wealth from a neighboring kingdom. He stayed for seven days, a week full of balls and great feasts and private meetings in my father's chambers. I thought the whole thing was frivolous--our kingdom couldn't afford lavish parties right then. Our people needed stability, not hoopla.

#

"Niddie," I shouted.

It was the last day of the earl's visit, and my step-mother had just left my father's chambers. I knew she had been privy to my father and the earl's discussions. Her golden eyes grew wide as she heard me call her name. She turned and shut the door swiftly and quietly before walking hurriedly towards me. She grabbed me by the arm and led me to my chambers. I tried to get her to explain what was going on, but she remained silent until my chamber door was closed.

"What's going on?" She exhaled sharply. "Niddie. Tell me what business the earl has with my father." I tugged on the sleeves of my dress and drew my hands into fists around the fabric. I pushed my chest out and raised my chin high. I was ready for whatever she'd say.

She walked to my bed and sat down before meeting my gaze. "You."

My chest and chin shrank. My knuckles grew white as my fists tightened. "Me?" How could I possibly be the earl's business?

As if she had read my thoughts, she said, "He wants your hand...in marriage."

"But I'm just a girl."

She looked down at her lap, her fingers twiddling with one another. "You'll be seventeen in a couple weeks."

"So?" I asked her.

"I was betrothed to your father by my seventeenth birthday."

"But why now? My father is still--"

"The winter's been rough on him. He's developed a cough. At first his physician was optimistic, but in the past couple weeks he's began to cough crimson."

I scanned her face, learning everything I didn't want to. "Why didn't you tell me?" My eyes filled with water.

"He asked me not to. He didn't want to worry you." She beckoned me to sit beside her. I shook my head but obliged. She took my hands in hers. There was an electric warmth to her flesh on mine.

"What's going to happen?" Heat rose in my cheeks.

Her lips trembled, but she maintained eye contact with me. "I'm afraid he doesn't have much time...He wants to secure your future and the kingdom." I asked her what she thought I should do. She swallowed before answering. "Marry him. What else is there to do?"

"What happens to you if I marry him? You'll stay, won't you?"

She brought my hands to her face and pressed her lips firmly to them. She placed my hands back onto my lap, and gave them a squeeze. "In proper time, I'll be remarried. Sent to another kingdom. Or..."

"Or what?" I demanded.

"If no other prince or lord will have me, I'll be sent elsewhere."

"Where?" I asked.

"A convent, a cave. Does it matter? I'll be imprisoned either way."

"This can't happen. You're the queen of this kingdom. You're my--I can't lose you, too." I pulled my hands from hers, and pressed my fingertips to my eyes to soak up the moisture. This wasn't the time to cry, it was the time for strategy.

"I assure you, it's as good as done. I am only queen as long as your father is alive and you are not on the throne. I'm afraid the next time you see the earl it will be at your wedding ceremony, and shortly after that they'll hold the coronation."

She looked so defeated as she spoke, the snakes in her hair were limp and unmoving, her eyes had lost their warmth and were turned towards the ground. I didn't know I was doing it until it had already happened; I found myself stroking her pale face.

Slowly, her gaze rose to meet mine. There was something in her eyes, something familiar once again. I exhaled sharply. I continued to stroke her face, and she turned her face into my hand, her lips brushing against my knuckles. I could hear my breath becoming deeper, my heart pumping harder against my chest. She pressed her lips to my fingers, her gaze never leaving mine. She then took my hand in hers and began to kiss my palm and wrist. No one had ever kissed me there before; I was only used to getting the top of my hand kissed at balls and other social gatherings, and receiving a quick, yet tender kiss on the forehead from my parents. Niddie was my step-mother, yet her kisses didn't feel like those I'd received from my parents or members of court.

As I was thinking all of this, she pushed back the sleeve of my dress and continued to press her lips to my flesh, moving slowly up my arm. When she reached the crook of my elbow, I shivered. "Niddie," I whispered.

She lifted her lips from my arm and sat up to face me. "Yes?"

She appeared just as breathless as I was. Her cheeks grew hollow, then filled out, and I swear I could hear her heart beating. In fact, my eyes couldn't help but wander to her heaving bosom. She took my hand and placed it on her chest. Her heart was thumping. I swallowed and licked my lips; they were suddenly very dry.

In sync, we drew closer to one another, our faces so near our noses were about to touch. Niddie's breath was hot and rapid on my nose. I'm sure mine was the same on hers. She swallowed. Then I heard air bubbles form and pop as her lips parted. Her head tilted slightly to the left and she closed the small gap between us with her lips. At first, my body drew back from my step-mother, but once our lips had parted, my mouth felt suddenly incomplete. I leaned forward and let my fingers tangle in the snakes in her hair. Her tongue wiggled my lips open and began to massage mine. Her tongue tasted like nutmeg and roast, and I couldn't get enough of it. In that moment, I didn't care about anything but her mouth sewn to mine. I didn't flinch when her fingers cupped my small breasts, or when her hand pressed through my skirts. I felt warm all over. I felt loved. I followed her lead; I cupped her breasts, I let my fingers glide along her torso and down to her legs. If lying in the orchard together had been perfection, this experience was of another kind. I couldn't find a word for it, however, I knew I felt safe and whole on that bed with her, her tongue and mine entwined. I didn't have to ask her, our tongues, lips, and fingers were speaking plenty; a promise was being made, a pact between us two. Before the horrid news came we whispered to one another a plan; afterall, there was only one thing to do.

#

My father was dead within the hour; he took his last breaths as my chest was rising and falling with renewed, enlightened air in my step-mother's embrace.

#

Three days later, tears stained my apple cheeks as they prepared to lower his body--my father and my king--into the ground. My step-mother stood on one side of me, the earl, my betrothed, on the other. None of us spoke or dared to touch one another.

Once my father was in the ground, the kingdom went from a sea of black to white; there was no time to waste between the funeral ceremony and my marriage to the earl. I stood in my chamber in front of a golden mirror as a herd of women pinned and pricked me as they fitted my wedding gown. I sat still as a different herd of women created nest after nest in my hair. They told me I was to be the fairest in the land, just as my father would have wanted. Except I knew that wasn't what he'd have wanted.

I waited until the morning of the ceremony before I left the note where Niddie and I had agreed I would; she would take care of the rest. I stole clothing from my chambermaid, snuck out to the orchard, and climbed over the stone wall at its border, disappearing into the forest. I walked until I found the crooked cottage Niddie had told me about. She had assured me they knew I was coming, and I would be safe.

And I was. In time, I got used to my new life--one of honest work and nature. The coal miners and Jacinda were pleasant enough and patient with me. The cottage was indeed charming and comfortable enough. But there was one thing missing.

It's been several months since then, and every full moon I leave the stream of smoke wafting from the chimney of the cottage and head north towards the orchard of my former kingdom. There I see her, my step-mother and my beloved. The charade has worn her more than I; her cheekbones now poke through her once soft skin, her eyes are beadier, and I can no longer watch the snakes dance in her blue-black hair--her hair is always pulled into braids so tight snake-like veins slither from her eyes to her temple. I admit, she looks wicked in all her ghostly beauty, which is precisely what she wanted. What we wanted. You see, she couldn't keep the throne without fear, and without my disappearance. Some believed becoming a widow at such a young age lit a madness within her. Some believed she'd sent a hunter to murder me like a deer or rabbit, returning with my bloody heart. Why? You may ask. Without a king, she only had her youth and beauty; everyone knew I was supposed to be the fairest of the land, and women, of course, are only as powerful as the youth and beauty they possess. My father reminded me of that many times throughout my life. And as we've been told in many tales, women are ruthless, not letting any female obstacle stand in their way.

When we see each other, my step-mother always asks if I'm happy and safe. Her eyes are kind, but anxious when she asks. She won't even embrace me until I answer. I always reply that I am, and she nods, pleased though she does not smile--in fact, I almost never see her smile anymore. Niddie always says that my father made her promise she'd make sure I was happy and safe after he passed. I smile and pull her close to me, trying to absorb her so I can keep her with me, and keep her from withering away into dust and the wickedness perpetual deception conceives. I worry one day she'll no longer look at me with kind eyes, but instead malice, the darkness she wears as a guise in order to keep the kingdom in the palm of her hand having truly blackened her soul.

On these nights where we spend a few precious hours together lying under the apple trees, our arms gripping one another tightly, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we'd chosen to run away instead. Could we have found happily ever after? Are we doomed to these monthly meetings because we fell in love outside of what was deemed appropriate? I may never find these answers, but I'll never stop meeting Niddie every full moon because she isn't just my beloved; she's my family.

Christina Rosso is a writer, educator, and feminist living in Philadelphia. She has a MFA in Creative Writing and MA in English from Arcadia University. Her writing seeks to uncover and a shine a spotlight on the oppression women are faced with everyday. Much of her work is inspired by fairy tales, but all of it reflects real life.

The Tree of Wisdom

Dale Cameron Lowry

Long ago, in a land where magic abounded but wisdom was in short supply, lived a queen and king who wanted a child so badly they would have given anything to have one—even things that were not theirs to give.

One day, they rode through the kingdom on their periodic search for dangerous dragons. Now, no one had seen a dragon in the realm for a hundred years, dangerous or otherwise. But searching for dragons was a royal duty nonetheless, and they performed it to their utmost.

As they journeyed, they spied a tree with ripe apples clinging to its branches. The king longed for one almost as much as he longed for a child.

"Let's stop and find the owner. I'd like to buy an apple," he said. The queen thought this was a delightful idea. They sent their squire around the village to find the owner of the apple tree. He came back with an old witch.

When they offered her their coins, she scoffed. "These apples are not for sale."

The king and queen were patient rulers. Instead of ordering her head chopped off, they said, "This is the going rate."

"For regular apples," the witch said. "But this is a tree of life. Each apple contains a soul. Plant its seed, and a child will grow."

"Well, in that case," the king said, "we will pay whatever you ask."

"It is not a matter of what I ask," said the witch, "but what the tree asks. I warn you, it will demand more than you wish to give."

"Impossible! For we have always wanted a child to raise." Not waiting to hear any more, the king plucked the most beautiful apple he could find. Its skin was russet like autumn leaves, and it blushed wine-red where it faced the sun.

The sky went dark. Or that's what the queen and king thought was happening at first, until they realized the blackness above them was caused by the tree's branches growing together, thickening and spreading until no light shone through. Beneath them, the tree's roots thrashed through the soil, then curled around the king and queen like writhing snakes.

A terrifying voice filled the air around them, rough on their ears like crackling leaves: "A life for a life! A garden can't grow without decay to feed its roots, and I can't give life without taking one in turn."

The king went pale. "Do you mean to kill me and my wife, and leave our child an orphan?"

"Of course not. You shall get your wish: a child to raise. But once you have raised it and it is old enough to marry, your wish will be fulfilled. When your child falls in love and is loved in return, death shall come. Your child's blood shall water my roots. If this does not please you, return the apple to me."

The tree fell silent. Its roots retreated back into the earth, releasing the king and queen from their grasp. Its branches parted. Light fell on the queen and king once more.

The king and queen discussed what they should do. The witch told them to leave the apple where they'd found it, but they had a better idea. They could have a child and see it live to old age, too. All they needed to do was keep it from falling in love!

The king bit the apple, and gave it to his wife to eat of it as well.

Upon their return home, they planted the apple's seed in their garden. Up came a beautiful vine, and from one of its flowers blossomed a tiny baby boy with russet skin and cheeks that went wine-red when he blushed.

His parents named him Florian in honor of his strange birth, but never told him of his origins. He was a cheerful child and kind to everyone he met. He listened to his tutors and played with the children of the servants as equals. He was adventurous, too, going on escapades outside the castle walls as often as he could: exploring forests and ravines, disguising himself as a pauper boy to learn about lives unlike his own, and—like his parents—searching for dragons without finding any.

One spring, having ridden his horse many miles from home, Florian happened upon an old witch sitting under an apple tree in bloom. It was the same tree whence he came, but he did not recognize it, though he thought it very beautiful, and could not resist moving closer to inhale the fragrance of its flowers.

"Good witch," he called out, "what a magnificent tree you're sitting under! May I join you in the shade? I am an orphaned traveler, and in need of rest."

"Dear prince, you can't fool me. I know who you are, and I will not harm you. This tree, on the other hand—" She patted its knotty roots. "This tree is not as benevolent as it looks. You may enjoy its shade for now, but I advise you not to return after today."

Florian came down from his horse and settled next to the witch on the soft, green earth. "What harm could a tree do?"

She did not answer that. Instead, she asked Florian about himself, and whether he was a happy child.

"Oh, very happy," he said. "I lead a blessed life."

"May I give you another blessing to add to the ones you already have?"

Florian didn't think it possible for his life to be improved upon, but he saw no harm in it. So the old witch laid her hands on him and said, "Dearest flower, may the thing that smites you also revive you."

Florian waited for the witch to say more, but she was silent. "Is that the entirety of the blessing?" he asked.

"It is all I can give."

"Well, thank you, then. Though I must say, I don't understand what it's supposed to mean."

"Don't worry about that. It should work just the same." And with that, she disappeared into the air, as if she had not been there at all.

#

On the same day Florian blossomed into life, another boy was born in the village where the witch lived. His parents named him Olvir, and they were happy for a time.

Alas—although magic was plentiful in their land, medical doctors were not. An illness swept through the village, and though the old witch spent all her time treating the sick, she could not stave off every death. Olvir's mother passed away, and he and his father became a smaller family.

The summer of Olvir's eleventh year, while he hunted for berries in the forest with the neighbor girl Greta, he came upon a beetle who had fallen on its back. The beetle waved its tiny legs in desperation, hoping to find some surface to cling to so it might flip itself back on its feet. Seeing the poor creature so vulnerable filled the boy's heart with sorrow. It made him think of his mother's feverish fits just before her death, and how helpless he had been to save her from them.

"Ah, look at that funny beetle, Olvir!" said Greta. "Let us crush it! It will make the most satisfying sound when its shell breaks."

Rage bubbled in Olvir's breast. "That's a wicked thing to say! Ogres find delight in crushing children between their teeth, but that does not make it right. Neither is it right for us to harm this tiny creature."

"Oh, rubbish! Beetles feel no more fear than rocks!"

Olvir stood firm. Greta grew tired of arguing and ran off to find acorn caps for crushing instead.

Olvir took a leaf from the forest floor and slipped it under the beetle's back, turning the leaf over to set the beetle aright. Suddenly he heard a small, high-pitched voice calling to him, "Thank you, Olvir. For this good deed, you will be greatly blessed!"

The voice sounded nothing like his playmate's. But he turned in her direction anyway, for who else could have spoken the words?

"No, Olvir, she is not the one who has spoken. It is I, the beetle." As if to confirm this, the beetle lifted its shiny black forewings and flapped the clear hind wings underneath, producing a soft buzz in the same pitch as its voice.

Olvir peered down at the insect, dumbfounded. "But beetles do not speak."

"All creatures speak, as you will soon discover. I have given you the power to understand the language of animals, for your empathy proves you are worthy of this gift."

"But who are you to give me such a gift? Are you a witch? Or a strange sort of dragon?"

"Your witches and dragons are not the only creatures to possess magic, dear friend. It's in all sorts of mundane places." As soon as the beetle had spoken this, it flew off.

Olvir began to call after it, but the first syllable was not half out of his mouth when he noticed his was not the only voice shouting, nor even the shrillest. Sparrows chattered about the best places to gather seeds and insects, the squirrels quarreled over buried treasure, and frogs hollered vulgar invitations to their potential mates.

Olvir blushed, and was thankful when an army of ants drowned out the ribaldry with their marching song.

Over all this din, he did not hear Greta calling to him until she was in his face, yanking his earlobe down with painful strength. "Have you lost your hearing, Olvir?" she hollered and then, putting down her basket, repeated to him in the sign language they used with those in the village who actually had.

"No," Olvir said and signed at the same time. "I'm afraid I've found it."

Greta looked at Olvir quizzically. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Olvir shrugged. He didn't have the focus to explain it to her. He was too busy trying to follow the conversations of dozens of animals he couldn't even see, because they were too small, or on the other side of a knoll, or hidden in a den somewhere. A bee had just found a very sweet flower and was broadcasting the news to her hive, and a group of deer was debating which parts of the forest were safest and which replete with hunters, and a mole sang to itself as it scoured the earth beneath them.

"Well, I only came to apologize, Olvir. A beautiful butterfly passed by as I was crushing acorn caps and I was very glad for it being alive, and I started to wonder why I loved the butterfly more than the beetle. I could think of no good reason other than its beauty. That is a silly reason to love one thing more than another, isn't it?"

"Perhaps you should apologize to the beetle and not to me."

"Is it still here?"

Olvir shook his head.

"Well, perhaps the next one I see will get my apology." She picked up her basket and hooked her arm in Olvir's as they headed back toward the village. The voices of the animals made it like walking through a busy marketplace—loud and overwhelming if he tried to understand every conversation being spoken in the stalls and street, but a comforting noise when he just let the words swim around him.

At home, the milk goat greeted him with, "Hello, fine friend," and the cat with, "Have you brought me any fishes?"

Olvir scratched his kitty under the chin and said, "I won't have the heart to catch any more fishes if they speak to me as clearly as you do."

The cat harrumphed and walked away, refusing to acknowledge Olvir until the cold of night came and the boy's lap was the only convenient warm spot to rest. He felt sorry for her, and the next day transplanted wild catnip to the garden to make up for her loss of fish, and nettles for the goat. This made them both very happy.

"What a kind master you are!" said the goat.

And the cat said, "I would thank you, if it weren't beneath my dignity to do so."

A few days later, Olvir's father noticed one of their geese had stopped laying. Before leaving for work at his blacksmith shop, he said to Olvir, "Son, do me a favor and slaughter that goose today. She'll make a good stew."

Olvir had killed many geese before, and thought nothing of the request. It was as routine as harvesting rampions from the ground or beans from the vine.

But when Olvir went to the yard to fetch the goose, she cried out, "Spare me, good boy! I'm not ready to leave this world quite yet."

Olvir's heart broke. "But my father wants dinner. What shall I feed him, if not you?"

"I cannot give you as many eggs as I used to, but if we feed more to the other geese, they shall produce a wealth for you. Let me make myself useful to you by gathering food for them. Later, when I tire of life or die of old age, I will be glad to become your stew."

"That does not take care of today's dinner."

"Would you rather have one good dinner today, or many good dinners in days to come?"

Olvir considered. He and his father were not starving, and would do fine on turnips and cheese for that night's dinner.

When his father came home to eat, Olvir explained their fleshless dinner by saying, "Today I saw the old goose gathering herbs in her beak to feed to the younger ones. They will lay more eggs with all that food. So I didn't slaughter her."

His father smiled. "You're a wise boy."

The goose did as she had promised, gathering seeds and fat grubs beyond her own needs to share with the other geese. Soon, Olvir and his father had more eggs than they could possibly use, and began to trade them with neighbors for soap, kindling, and other useful things. They never stewed a bird again, unless it died of old age or in the jaws of a fox.

#

On Prince Florian's thirteenth birthday, his life changed. His parents sent away from the castle everyone his age, and any adult not happily married: the stable boy and the goose girl, the astrology tutor, even the head of the royal guard. In addition, the prince was no longer allowed outside the castle walls. The moat bridge was always drawn, and iron bars covered the windows. If Florian wanted to go outside, his only choices were the courtyard and the parapet.

His parents told him the world was a dangerous place now that he was growing nearer the age of becoming king.

"The goose girl wouldn't harm me!" he cried. "And I loved the stable boy more than a brother."

The king cleared his throat. This was exactly the sort of love he was trying to prevent. "Have your mother and I ever done anything to harm you, son?"

The prince lowered his head, looking like a dog whose tail was between its legs. "No."

"Then trust we have your best interests in mind."

Florian had always been an obedient child, and he strived to be obedient in this matter, too. Though he couldn't help, when atop the turrets, looking down on the kingdom and thinking of all the young men his age he was not allowed to see, and whether there might be one out there who would make him very happy indeed.

#

During the first winter of Florian's imprisonment, a trader from the south came through Olvir's village. She stopped at the blacksmith shop to see if he could repair her cooking pot, which had rusted through at the bottom. As Olvir prepared the pot for patching, a crowd gathered in front of the shop to marvel at her strange wares and listen to stories about her strange land.

Having nothing to do while the pot and patch softened in the fire, Olvir joined them. But he had difficulty concentrating on the trader's tales, for he heard a voice coming from inside her wagon: "Oh, she has brought us to such a cold place. How will we ever survive?"

And another voice said, "If we found a hearth to always be near, I do think we could prosper here."

Olvir peered inside the wagon and saw two strange creatures small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. They were in the shape of salamanders, but with large scales that overlapped like plates of armor. Olvir thought of all the stories he'd heard about dragons in days of old, and how their bodies were covered in the same manner, and worried for a moment that he might meet his death.

"My word!" Olvir exclaimed. "Have you come to kill us all?"

The creatures turned and peered at him with dull, lifeless eyes. "We are the ones at risk of death," said the one on the left, who was smaller and with scales that had a slightly yellow tinge.

"But are you not dragons?"

The one on the right, whose scales were more grayish-brown than yellow, made a sound that was a cross between a snicker and a hacking cough. "If we were, we could create our own fire, and would have no fear of perishing. We are but lizards—though we won't be for long if this cruel winter continues. We will die, and become meat for vultures."

Olvir had heard various travelers from the south speak of lizards, and he was no longer afraid. He stretched his hand into the wagon so the lizards might climb on it. "I'm the son of the blacksmith, and we always have a fire going. We can give you a home."

Just then, the trader paused in her storytelling. The crowd fell quiet with eager suspense as they waited for her next detail.

The cage door creaked as it shut closed.

"What are you doing, boy?" The trader's voice shattered the silence. The crowd's eyes moved from her to Olvir.

"These creatures suffer," he said, holding them out for her to see. They were pale and lethargic even in the warmth of his hand. "I shall take them into my home and nurse them back to health."

"I don't care if they suffer," said the trader. "They are mine and you will do no such thing."

Well, this raised Olvir's hackles. "As I see it, I am doing you a favor. You will no longer have to feed these creatures, nor concern yourself with keeping them warm. They are beyond worthless to you."

She scowled. "And they would be less of a burden to you?"

"The hearth in our shop is always warm, and we have plenty of grubs in our dirt floor. They will cause me no expense."

"I'll have you know these are strange, magical creatures, worth twice their weight in silver."

"Do not lie to me. They are natural creatures, and worth only what someone will pay for them. And no one will pay you anything if they die under your care. I will save you the loss by accepting them as payment for my work."

"A mended pot for two strange creatures? That's hardly a generous offer."

"Ah, but it's very generous. For that pot allows you to cook food, and that food will keep you alive. Without my aid, you could very well die." Olvir scratched his chin with his right hand as he looked at the creatures in his left. "Perhaps these beasts are too poor a payment, and you ought to give me some spices as well."

The trader huffed and puffed, but could not outwit him, and by the time she had left town Olvir was not only the new guardian of two small and odd creatures, but also the owner of four nutmegs, eleven sticks of cinnamon, three ounces of mallow root, and a pretty purple snail shell to wear around his neck.

As the creatures had no names, he christened them Jormun and Heri after Jormungand and Herensuge, the progenitors of all dragons, both evil and good. They lived in the blacksmith shop by the hearth, and fed themselves on the grubs that lived in the dirt floor, which didn't bother Olvir because grubs didn't speak. Crickets, on the other hand, did. So when spring came and Jormun and Heri discovered those scrumptious treats, he requested they slay them more quickly, and only when he was out of the shop.

Two years passed. Olvir and his father had plenty of eggs to eat, and milk from their goat, and their shop was prosperous. Greta came by often and dropped hints about becoming Olvir's wife. He dropped hints that he'd rather she not.

"You are of an age to marry," said his father over supper one evening. "Greta would make as good a wife as any, and she is your friend. Friendship is of no small value in marriage."

"True," said Olvir, "but I would not be a good husband for her."

"Nonsense! You are industrious, and you cook as well as you forge metal. Any woman would be glad to have you."

"Perhaps for a while. But since I would be unable to love her, she would eventually tire of me."

"Do you think yourself heartless? I disagree. Your compassion toward creatures shows you are not."

"No. I have much love to give, and have often dreamt of my future spouse. But sadly for Greta, he always comes to me in the form of a young man."

"Ah, well. Such visions are often true. You ought to tell Greta, so she stops thinking her future spouse is you."

Olvir told Greta, and she pouted for a bit. But soon she found the shoemaker's son was even more worthy of her love, and as the shoemaker could return her affection to an equal degree, they married and had a child. Olvir became the godfather.

Alas, good fortune does not continue forever, and the winter of his seventeenth year, he noticed his father growing steadily weaker month by month, until he could no longer get out of bed. Olvir and Greta and the shoemaker's son tended to him, and the witch cast her spells. But as the cause of the sickness was not magical, her powers were as ineffectual as they had been with Olvir's mother. Olvir's father perished, making Olvir no longer the blacksmith's son. He was now, simply, the blacksmith.

In his grief, his animal friends gave him comfort. Jormun and Heri showed more affection than usual, climbing up Olvir's tunic as he worked by the hearth and settling upon his shoulder or head. They leaned close to his ear so he could hear them speak above the fire, told him tales about their exotic desert homeland and all the amazing lands they had seen in their travels with the trader to keep him from getting too morose.

The cat had multiplied with kittens, and they all kept him company in the evening, making sure he fed himself before retiring, and sleeping on his father's side of the bed through the night to help him stay warm.

The goose whose life he had spared worked extra hard to gather seeds and grubs for the flock so Olvir wouldn't have to spend his energy on growing feed.

And though the beetle he had saved had long ago died, its offspring were plentiful, and just as grateful for Olvir's compassion as their foremother had been. They scared away pests from his garden so flowers might grow there and bring him some measure of joy, and sent their friends the butterflies to dance for him whenever his face fell too far to the ground.

Olvir was glad for the company, but he longed for the day when he might have human companionship again, and a husband and children to bring joy to his home.

#

There is only so long you can keep a person prisoner before he will rebel. Prince Florian had always been an obedient child, but he became surly and impatient. He did poorly in his lessons. Where once he had been an excellent conversationalist, he now was terse and uninterested in anything his interlocutors said. His handwriting, formerly legible and precise, became scrawling and difficult for even him to read. He had trouble with memorization, forgetting the most important parts when reciting the realm's history, and faltering when playing lute tunes he had known for many years.

Only two things gave him respite from his anger and restlessness. The first was visiting the royal blacksmith shop. Walking into its stifling heat, he felt transported into another world, perhaps one of the desert lands he'd read about in his studies. The fires were so large and hot they could have come from the lungs of a dragon, and when the men hammered the hot metal and sparks flew into the air, Florian imagined each spark was a dragon seed, and that if it alighted in the right place, it would bloom into a monster before his eyes.

His other refuge was his daily swordplay sessions with the master-at-arms. Though much older, the master-at-arms was strong and handsome, and Florian often found himself idly imagining what it would be like to be held by him, and kissed by him, and to sleep under warm blankets in the same bed. Swordplay gave Florian many opportunities to study the master-at-arms' body and movements, and he stored these images in his mind as fodder for later musings.

It was a harmless crush, but it helped Florian forget his loneliness a few hours each day. The fresh air did him good, too. Taking his sword practice atop the turrets with the wind sweeping through his hair, he felt relatively free. Each blow he parried made him a bit stronger, more able to withstand the blows of unhappiness taunting him daily. When he thrust his sword, he imagined himself slicing through the walls that imprisoned him in the castle.

He devised a plan to break free. Every morning and night, he brushed the iron bars across his bedchamber window with water and salt. As the months and years passed, they grew weak with rust until finally, on the evening before his eighteenth birthday, they had been eaten almost through. As the castle slept, he snapped the bars in half and lowered himself to the ground on a rope of bed sheets.

Florian was dressed in his plainest clothes, carrying nothing but a few coins in his pockets and a satchel with a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a few other small necessities. He walked all night, wading through many creeks to throw off any dogs his parents might send after him. By morning he was sopping wet, and very cold. He climbed a tree, ate a quarter-loaf of bread and some cheese, hung his clothes on the branches to dry, and wrapped himself in a blanket to rest.

He passed many days this way, walking along roads and trails until, one morning near sunrise, he came upon the apple tree he recognized from so long ago. It was early spring, and the tree was in bloom just as it had been the last time he'd seen it. But the old witch was not there—she had died soon after Olvir's father, and fed the apple tree's roots. Nothing was left of her body now.

Florian forgot the witch's warning and, intoxicated by the apple blossoms' scent, climbed into its arms. What followed was the best sleep he'd had since leaving the castle.

He awoke to the sun lowering toward the hills, and slanted yellow light filtering through the boughs—late afternoon, but not quite sunset. His stomach growled, for he hadn't eaten in a day. But he had no time to think about that, because footsteps arose nearby, and the sound of someone whistling a pretty tune.

Florian peered through the branches, and his heart quickened when he spied the source of the song: a young man about his own age, walking along the road. This would have been marvelous enough—it had been so long since Florian had seen any peers at all—but was heightened by the young man's handsomeness. Though his clothes were simple and unrefined, the man himself was tall and walked nimbly, and the rolled-up sleeves of his tunic exposed strong, muscular forearms even more impressive than those of the castle's master-at-arms. He had no visible hair on his chin, but the hair on his head was the darkest brown, making his pale skin seem almost white in comparison.

Florian bent forward to get a better look—but paying more attention to the handsome stranger than to his balance, he bent too far and went toppling through the branches to the ground.

"Ooof!" The earth was soft from the spring thaw, but still hard enough to push all the air from Florian's lungs.

"Oh!" The stranger looked over in surprise. "Have you fallen from the sky?"

"No, sir. The tree." Florian rubbed his hand against his head. All his appendages were still attached, and he felt no real pain—though the same could not be said for embarrassment, which he felt in full.

It grew all the more when the stranger approached and offered his hands. Florian took them both, and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet—and suddenly was face-to-face with the stranger.

Florian's heart almost catapulted out of his chest. For if he had thought the stranger handsome before, now he saw the full extent of his beauty, at least as far as the man's face was concerned: eyes that were green and gold, like ripening acorns; cheeks that glowed ruddy from the growing chill; freckles like stars across his nose; and lips as red as raspberries.

Florian had to stop himself from leaning forward to taste them.

"Well," said the stranger with a wry smile. "I see you can stand with help. That's good news. Do you think you'll be able to stand on your own?"

Florian realized he was still holding onto the stranger's hands. They were strong, and though the callused skin was cool from exposure to the wind, warmth radiated from the muscles underneath. Florian had absolutely no desire to let go, but the stranger was looking at him expectantly, eager to learn the extent of his injuries. Florian had a mind to say, I am fine, and will always be as long as you continue to hold me. But his tongue seemed tied in his mouth, and he was unable to speak. So he let go and took a step back, to prove his strength to the stranger.

"Ah, good," the man said, patting Florian's arm. "I'm glad to see it. And may I ask what you were doing in the tree? It has no apples to pick this time of year."

"I was resting. I am a traveler, and a tree is as good a place to sleep as any."

The stranger looked Florian over, from head to toe. Florian felt hot under the gaze, embarrassed at the rips in his clothes from climbing so many trees, and the mud stains from passing through so many creeks. And yet the heat wasn't altogether unpleasant. It simmered deep in his belly, thrumming through him like the purr of a cat.

"A tree is not as good as a bed, my friend. You look like you could use a more comfortable place to rest, and perhaps some food."

"Really, I'm alright," Florian said. But his stomach betrayed him, growling so loudly it frightened the squirrels and they went scurrying high into the branches.

The stranger chuckled, slapping Florian's back. "Come, gather your things. I shall take you to my house and feed you, and you will get a good night's sleep. What is your name?"

Florian had planned to travel a good distance more, but sleeping beside this gentle young stranger seemed a much better idea. He thanked the man and stated his true name, for it was common enough that it would not give away his identity as the prince.

Besides, he wanted to hear it on this handsome stranger's lips.

"Nice to meet you, Florian. I'm Olvir." He clasped Florian's hand again, and the prince's heart fluttered so hard it might have flown away, had it not been trapped by the cage of Florian's ribs.

They stopped first at Olvir's shop. He was a blacksmith, it turned out, a fact that made Florian's heart beat wildly again. Florian sat in a corner and watched Olvir polish a plough blade for one of the farmers. The light from the glowing coals in the fire pit behind him caught in his hair, making it a burnt-red like maple leaves in autumn.

Florian was so immersed in studying the hair, he barely registered the presence of a small movement up Olvir's back, and thought nothing of it until the moving thing settled itself on Olvir's shoulder and gazed directly at Florian with wide, frog-like eyes.

Florian jumped up in shock. "My word! A dragon!"

"Where?" Olvir spun around, his eyes darting about the room, and held the plough blade out as a weapon.

"Your shoulder!"

Olvir froze. He looked at his own shoulder, then at Florian. His body went lax, and he began to laugh—and though Florian had no idea why Olvir might laugh in the face of such potential danger, he could not help but be comforted, for the sound was as sweet as birdsong.

Olvir stepped toward Florian. "I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you about my lizard friends. This boy—" He pointed to the creature on his shoulder. "—is Jormun. There's another named Heri. She's on the other side of the fire pit, as you can see." Olvir pointed across the room and Florian spotted a scaly creature curled up on a small table in slumbering repose, much like a cat, but one-tenth the size. She had been so still, Florian had mistaken her for a small linen rag. "I thought they were dragons when I first met them, too," said Olvir, "but they are as natural as you or me. A trader from the south brought them here from their native land. They can't survive here on their own, but they do well in my shop as the fires keep them warm."

Jormun scampered down Olvir's arm and leapt onto Florian's, as if to introduce himself.

"Oh my!" Florian exclaimed as the scaly creature nuzzled against his sleeve. "A natural creature, this is? He certainly looks like he could breathe fire."

"I assure you, he does not. And he is at his full size, so even if he could, it wouldn't do much harm."

A feeling of contentment flooded Florian's body. He no longer felt fearful, not even when Jormun opened his mouth wide and let out a hiss, demonstrating that Olvir spoke the truth about his lack of fire-breathing capabilities.

"Well, then," Florian said, looking into Jormun's eyes. "It is nice to meet you, my friend."

As if he had understood, Jormun nodded and seemed to smile.

#

Olvir's house was a one room structure, much plainer than the castle, with a family bed on one wall, a stove on another, and a table and chairs set between them. As Florian had traveled much in his younger days, its size and simplicity did not shock him. With its wood walls, it in fact felt warmer and more homey to him than the stone castle had in years. He chatted with Olvir as the latter cooked, and tried to help. But having had no experience in a kitchen, he could only do simple things like stirring the pot when Olvir told him to.

Supper was a simple but delicious meal of goose eggs and asparagus, with enough bread on the side to appease Florian's hunger. As they ate, Olvir told of his deceased mother and father, the blacksmith shop, and the beautiful forest on the hill where he gathered his firewood. He described it vividly so Florian could picture the finest details, from tadpoles swimming in ephemeral ponds to golden leaves lighting the canopy in autumn.

In his turn, Florian told as much as he could about himself without giving his family's wealth or his identity away. It wasn't that he didn't trust Olvir with the information. The young man had already proven so kind and generous, a true good soul. But Florian didn't want to burden him with this knowledge in case soldiers came looking.

Florian told Olvir he had been privileged to learn reading at a young age, he played the lute, and he wished to find a friendly dragon one day. He recited stories from the realm's history, and shared memories from his rambles through the countryside as a young boy. Despite being a practiced storyteller, he occasionally faltered, stammering and forgetting his words when Olvir looked him directly in the eye.

The gray cat came up under the table to rub against Florian's legs, then Olvir's, and purred loudly.

"Do you, now?" Olvir said, looking down at his feet, with a bright laugh that made his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. He was so very handsome, and Florian longed to kiss him, but thought instead he should ask what Olvir's question meant, for it seemed quite out of context.

"Do I what?"

Olvir looked up at Florian with a startled "Oh!", his eyes wide and the whites shining, as if he had forgotten Florian was there. His cheeks flushed pink—in the yellow light of the flame, they looked much like the skin of a ripe peach—and his lips an even deeper shade. "I was talking to the cat, actually. I have spoken the language of animals since I was a boy."

Warmth stirred in Florian's heart. He had heard of such blessed souls, but never met one. And here was such a one, wrapped up in the most lovely body Florian had ever laid eyes upon.

Olvir was beautiful, inside and out.

"That's wonderful!" Florian exclaimed. "I have often wondered what it might be like, to know the mind of a creature. What did the cat say to you just now?"

As if the cat understood the conversation—and of course it must, if Olvir could understand it—it rubbed up against Florian again, purring more vigorously.

Olvir looked down at his hands, then at Florian, then again at his hands, his eyelashes flitting like the wings of a butterfly. "She said we should keep you."

#

Olvir gave Florian a clean tunic to sleep in, and politely looked away as he changed. But Olvir could not help peering over his shoulder once or twice, to spy his new friend's nakedness.

These brief glimpses stole Olvir's breath. Florian's body was becoming in its own right, yes—but what was more, it looked very much like the one Olvir had dreamt of these many years. Even in the candle's sparse light, this was as clear to Olvir as if the room had been flooded with noonday sun.

He had suspected the resemblance ever since Florian's falling out of the tree. Olvir had taken Florian's hands and looked into his gentle brown eyes, and felt a stirring he'd never felt with any other boy.

The stirring became longing as they'd spent the afternoon and evening together. Florian was animated and adventurous, and his dark cheeks deepened to wine-red when he spoke of the things he loved. It was clear Florian had not always been the peasant he seemed to be now, because his hands were soft and uncalloused, and even the most incompetent peasant knew how to peel a turnip. But Olvir didn't press for details. They would come in due time, when Olvir had proven his trustworthiness.

And oh, how Olvir wanted to prove it.

He thought he might get the chance. Olvir was not experienced in the ways of love, but he understood friendship, and everything Florian had done so far demonstrated he returned Olvir's affection and respect. And now, as they crawled into bed with the cats, the affection between them seemed to take on a physical form—a spark batting between them, an ember caught on an updraft. Olvir both feared and hoped the spark would ignite into flame.

By the time he was settled under the blankets, Olvir's heart seemed ready to gallop out of his chest. He was unsure how it would ever slow down enough for him to sleep. It helped a little when the cats piled around them, soothing his anxiety by purring against his side.

Without a word, Florian slipped an arm around his chest, as if that were its natural home. His warm breath was soft against Olvir's neck, and Olvir could feel the boy's heart beating against his own. He felt suddenly at peace—more than he could ever remember feeling since the earliest days of his childhood, since before his mother died.

Olvir did what was natural to him. He pulled Florian closer, and kissed him gently on the forehead, and then on the lips. Florian let out a soft, urgent sigh, as if he had waited for the kiss from the moment they'd met.

Perhaps he had.

They continued to kiss, one gentle buss after another, until Olvir could not tell where one ended and the other began. Even when they spoke, their lips did not fully part. "You're the most handsome man I've ever met, and the most kind," Florian whispered.

"Perhaps you have not met many men," Olvir responded, for he was overwhelmed by the praise.

"I have met enough to recognize what is exceptional." Florian kept his mouth open as he continued the kiss, and Olvir could not resist the temptation to lick past open lips and taste the inside of his lover's mouth. Florian breathed a low, satisfied rumble.

For a moment, Olvir thought he'd been transported to heaven.

But then he heard one of the cats say, "Oh, my. Who knew humans could purr, too?" and Olvir knew he was very much on earth.

#

They passed many days together. Florian did not speak of resuming his journey, and Olvir did not ask. Florian had observed the royal blacksmiths enough to make himself somewhat useful at Olvir's shop, fetching water and cloths and various tools before Olvir asked for them.

Olvir would have enjoyed his company even if Florian had proved useless in this regard.

For his part, Olvir served as translator for Florian's conversations with the lizards, the cats, the geese, the insects and many other creatures. Florian was delighted to learn many new things, such as what it was like to sleep on the bloom of a sunflower, or to live under a rock.

When there were no duties left for Florian to perform, he would play with the lizards, or practice the cooking skills Olvir had taught him the evening before, or simply sit on a bench and watch Olvir at work. He especially loved when Olvir, overheated by his labors, would peel off his overshirts and aprons, his muscular arms bared by his sleeveless tunic, the fabric clinging tightly to his torso, his skin glistening with sweat.

Oh, yes, he liked that very much, and often his admiration would progress into daydreams in which more of Olvir's skin was bared—for though Florian had touched him shyly in the dark, he had never seen the whole of him.

It's a strange thing, falling in love. It is not the sum of its parts: a pretty face, a dashing smile, an interesting conversation, a look here, a touch there. It turns the parts into more than they would be otherwise. It's a sort of magic in that way.

And so love worked its magic on Florian and Olvir who, though from two different worlds, found a home in each other.

#

Travelers were not unknown in these parts, and the other villagers were as interested in Florian as they were in the average traveling peasant, which meant they wanted to hear stories from other places, but did not think him nearly so fascinating as a bard, a trader, a troupe of bawdy actors, or a nobleman on a quest. After a few days, they seemed to forget he hadn't always been there, and after two weeks, Greta and the shoemaker's son said he should be their next child's godfather, unless it would make Olvir jealous.

"Ha!" said Olvir, whose goddaughter had just commandeered him to serve as her ride-a-back-pony. "The more godfathers, the merrier!" Florian smiled, so of course Olvir had to kiss him, and then he did his horsely duties and galloped up and down the central village lane until the little girl tired of the fun.

When three weeks had passed and Florian was quite settled, and had forgotten his past life almost as much as the villagers had forgotten his strangeness, a unit of the royal regiment came through, knocking on each door and inquiring if a traveler had been seen in these parts, yea high with russet skin and dark, curly locks, for the prince had gone missing and the king and queen would do anything to find him.

But in one house it was, "Oh, what I would give to see someone as fine and rich as a prince, he must have the most delicate hands and the cleanest clothes," and at another it was, "No travelers in these parts since the band of lute players came through that first warm day of spring," and at another it was, "I feel as if I must have seen a traveler of late, and yet I know everyone in the village, and they all belong here. So I suppose it was a dream."

Florian saw the soldiers down the hill as he was out fetching water. Freedom was a delicious thing, and falling in love as much so, and he desired losing neither. He scampered back to the shop and entered so quickly it gave Jormun and Heri a fright, and they bit their own tails as was their habit when anything startled them.

"I must confess something to you, about who I am," Florian called over the hammering of iron.

Olvir turned, unperturbed by Florian's agitation. Rather, he looked as if he had expected this sentence for a very long time. He set down his anvil and tongs. "No you don't, my dear. A beetle flew in just a few minutes ago and told me soldiers are in the village, asking questions about a traveler. What if you gave me the answer they sought? I am a terrible liar, Florian."

"But—"

Olvir stepped closer, and held Florian's flushed cheeks in his callused hands, and kissed him. "If you wish not to see these men, go to the forest and wait in a tree, and my geese will keep you from being discovered."

"Your geese?"

"Oh yes, they are terrible creatures when enraged."

So Florian did as he was told.

The soldiers came by Olvir's shop and asked if he had seen a stranger traveling through, and he answered he had not, for it was true: Florian was not a stranger, and he had not passed through. He was—and the thought of this made happiness flutter in Olvir's belly—here to stay.

The soldiers next neared the forest, but they had no chance to look in the canopy, for geese came at them from left and right, hissing and flapping most threateningly, and the soldiers left as quickly as they came.

Olvir watched them march out of the village, and when they had faded over the horizon he headed to the woods to find his love. A creek lay on the path to the woods, and as Olvir stepped across it, he saw three fishes caught in the reeds and gasping for water. "What a sorry way to perish!" they coughed, and Olvir pitied them. His love was safe; these fish were not. So Olvir tarried long enough to put the three fish back in the water. When they were in the deep, swimming freely, they leapt from the water with delight and cried, "We will remember you and repay you for saving us!"

He waved them a happy good-bye.

When Olvir arrived at the edge of the woods, the geese greeted him and led him to Florian. "The soldiers are gone," Olvir called up. "You can come down now, my love. You are safe."

Florian scrambled down the tree, so eager to be back in Olvir's arms that he jumped the final distance, and landed much as he had when he fell out of the apple tree. Before Olvir could worry, Florian sprang to his feet to show he was uninjured, threw open arms around his love, and covered his face with kisses. "Am I, really?"

Olvir pulled back and looked at him quizzically. "Are you what, really?"

"You called me your love. Am I, really?"

"Is that a surprise? You have always been, since the moment I met you. Possibly before."

Florian fell to the ground again, more purposefully this time, and brought Olvir with him. He tugged at Olvir's clothes, which inconveniently obscured things Florian very much wanted to see. He kissed Olvir's mouth, and his chest, and farther below, and between each kiss he murmured a phrase, until he had said all this: "I cannot give you riches, even if I were a prince. I consider myself one no more. I have only the coins I left home with, and have no intention of going back."

"My love, if you imagined I fell for you because of your riches, you are a bigger fool than I thought you to be." Olvir flipped them over and fought with the ties of Florian's jerkin, to unloose them.

Florian chuckled. "So you think me a fool, do you?"

"Perhaps not a fool. But you do have a certain charming naïveté, my love. Remember, I had to teach you how to stir a pot."

"True. And you have taught me many other things, for which I am grateful. Here, let me show you what I have learnt." He scrambled to remove the last of their clothing. "And perhaps I am a fool?"

"Oh?"

Florian pulled Olvir against him and felt the same velvety softness of skin over hard muscle that he had previously felt in the dark. But now he saw, too, how wonderfully their bodies fit together, one light and one dark, but tangled in such a way that they seemed as one. He ran his fingers over the pale expanse of Olvir's skin, watched goose pimples rise in the wake of his touch. "A fool, my dear Olvir, is someone with no preconceived notions and no expectations of grandeur, and that is who I am now. I have no past I am tied to, and no wish for the royal future my parents planned for me. My only wish is—" To make a home with you, he thought. To love you for all our days. But the words clumped heavy in his throat like tears, and he could not speak.

Florian kissed Olvir instead, hoping to express the depth of this simple longing, and Olvir responded in such a way that Florian knew he was understood. The cool spring earth was flush with moss and soft beneath them. Olvir's body was as warm as his blacksmith shop, and his pale skin began to flush all over into the pink of redolent cherry blossoms. His body was more beautiful than Florian had dared imagine, and for a moment he forgot to breathe, but then he remembered and began kissing Olvir again in earnest. "This naive pauper is unworthy of your love, and yet..." Again, the words stopped in Florian's throat, so delightful was the touch of Olvir's skin.

"And yet what?" Olvir brushed the hair from Florian's eyes and watched him admiringly, as if Florian were the most precious treasure on earth.

The cage in Florian's throat unlocked. The desires of his heart flew free. "And yet I would so much like to be your husband, if you would have me."

"Oh, flower. I have already married you in my heart." And with that, Olvir used his lips to tell of his devotion in a different kind of language, kissing his way down Florian's chest and fluttering stomach before taking into his mouth a part of Florian that had grown as much as his heart with all this talk of love.

#

They took the long way home, meandering through forest and glen with no particular destination in mind, for, having just declared their marriage, they were in no hurry to get back to work, and the customers would certainly understand an event like this called for a more prolonged celebration than a simple tussle in the woods.

Presently they found themselves at the apple tree where they had met weeks before. It was still fragrant and lovely, for not all the flowers had yet fallen from its branches—and what lovelier thing exists than to sit beneath an apple bough in blossom? There are not many, and so they sat to rest in the tree's shade.

But no sooner had they done so than the tree became animated. Its roots rose out of the ground like vipers preparing to strike. Its branches grew spines as sharp as a hawthorn's, and the lines in the tree bark moved like sinister lips.

"All things are born of the earth, and must to the earth return!" it declared with a booming voice. Before either man could think to run away, a root leapt up and stabbed through Florian's heart, and a thorn slit across Florian's throat, and he collapsed as dead, his blood soaking the ground.

The roots recessed into the earth, and the thorns disappeared, and the apple tree once again looked as harmless as it had before. But Florian remained bleeding, and though Olvir tried to staunch the flow, it would not cease.

"What are you, evil thing?" Olvir cried to the tree. "Why have you taken my groom?"

"I am a tree of life. I gave this one life, and must have it back. No garden can grow without decay to feed its roots, and no life can I give without taking one in turn."

"That is foolishness! Life is abundant. A beetle I once knew has made a thousand descendants in a few years' time. My cat has so many kittens they barely fit in a family bed. And death is abundant. My mother is dead, and my father, and the old witch, too. Why not take their bodies in his place?"

"I already have," the tree said. "My roots go far and feast on every grave in the realm."

"Is there nothing you want more than my true love's life? You call yourself a tree of life. What is life without love?"

At this, the tree of life grew quieter. "There are three things I want more."

"And if I get them for you, will you give my love back to me?"

"They are impossible to get." And so the tree told Olvir about other trees, far away, that had once been a part of its same grove—a tree of knowledge of good and evil, a tree of charity, and a tree of compassion—and how they had shared their roots, and their canopies had grown so close they had grafted together. But then one day an evil giant tore them apart, throwing one to the desert, one to the sea, one to the mountain, and lastly threw the tree of life here in this valley, to take root alone. Without its sisters, it could give and take life, but it could no longer understand love.

"As long as your sisters live, your wish is not impossible," Olvir said, though he knew not how to bring them back together.

A chorus of small voices rose from the grass. "As you have saved our foremother's life, we will endeavor to save your groom." Up rose a swarm of beetles, flapping their wings so they hovered before Olvir's eyes. "Wait here, and do not bury him."

The beetles flew to the geese, and the lizards, and the fish, and every other creature indebted to Olvir, and none hesitated to help. The fish swam to the bottom of the sea and took a cutting from the tree of charity. The geese flew to the mountain to fetch a branch from the tree of knowledge of good and evil; and the fastest cat ran swiftly to the desert with the lizards on her back and they guided her to the tree of compassion and removed a stem from it.

Olvir closed Florian's lifeless eyes, and changed his body into clean clothes, but refused to wrap him in a shroud. The sun went down, and came up, and went down again, and the animals returned to him with the precious stems. But though he grafted them onto the tree, Florian didn't wake.

The magic was not complete yet, for the grafts must first grow together as one.

The goat came to the apple tree to hold vigil with his master, and Greta's family came, too, and though Olvir hated to part from Florian's body, each day he went to check on the geese and stoke the fires in the blacksmith shop so Jormun and Heri would stay warm. Florian would not want their suffering be added upon his own.

Each night, Olvir slept by Florian's side under the apple three, his arm around Florian's body. When it rained or dewed, Florian's body was as cold as the earth; and when the sun rose in the morning, it became as warm as the air.

One dawn, it was neither of those. It was even warmer—as warm as Olvir himself.

Florian's chest rose, and fell, and rose again. When Olvir leaned in to listen, his breath brushed softly against Olvir's ear. When Olvir stroked his cheek, it flushed with living blood.

"Florian, my love?"

Florian's eyes blinked open. His pupils shrank in the light, the bands of golden-brown around them broadening. They sparkled like life itself, because they were. "Have I fallen asleep, Olvir? I did not mean to." He laughed, and kissed Olvir's nose, and Olvir began to cry. "What's this, my love?" Florian said, wiping away Olvir's tears.

Olvir opened his mouth to say all that had happened, but instead the words that came out were, "I love you very much, and am glad you are my husband."

Florian kissed him again. "I, too."

It was, from then on, happily ever after. Florian never found a dragon, but he no longer needed to, for daily life with Olvir was fulfilling enough. Nor did he return to the castle, though once a year he sent by goose or beetle a note to let his parents know he was healthy and happy. This gave them solace. For what does a parent want more than a child's happiness?

The tree of life, which was now the tree of wisdom, demanded no more sacrifices of the offspring it bore. It gave Florian and Olvir many children to love, and took none away. They lived in undisturbed happiness to a great age, and when they eventually died—as all must do—it was in their sleep, in the family bed, with their arms wrapped comfortably around each other.
Dale Cameron Lowry (www.dalecameronlowry.com) lives in the Upper Midwest with a partner and three cats, one of whom enjoys eating dish towels, quilts, and wool socks. It's up to you to guess whether the fabric eater is one of the cats or the partner. When not busy mending items destroyed by the aforementioned fabric eater, Dale enjoys writing, gardening, listening to podcasts, getting annoyed at Duolingo, and reading fairy tales.

If Only You Were Someone Else

Jennifer Loring

The woman peered into the cradle where she had left her infant son not half an hour before, and screamed herself raw. Her child, the only fruit of her miserly womb, was gone.

In the tiny cradle lay the thing—for she could not call it human—abandoned in his place. Chalky and sexless, it stared at her with soporific eyes that seemed to question its existence as much as she did. She had offended the good folk in some way. In return, they had stolen her child, leaving her with one of their own ugly offspring.

She could barely resist putting her foot through each one of the faery mounds in the woods. First her husband in a hunting accident, now their only child. She could think of nothing she had done wrong, no offering she hadn't given the fae who dwelled amongst the trees and even within her house, forever invisible to her.

When at last she returned to the room, the squirming larva gazed up at her with its shimmering, violet eyes. It did not cry nor make any sounds a human child might; it did not express hunger, boredom, or discomfort. Yet it was still a baby, as helpless as her own son had been. The woman's painful, milk-heavy breasts begged for a suckling to nourish, so with reluctance she lifted the changeling from its bed and allowed it to feed.

As she cradled the odd, inexplicably cold infant to her bosom, she decided to bring it up as a girl. She hoped that raising it as such would not remind her quite so often of her lost son. She named her Grisandole, and from that day forward, the woman banished the word "changeling" from their house.

#

Grisandole was not very old before she recognized she looked nothing like her mother. Or, for that matter, anyone else she had chanced to see in her sheltered life. Mother went to town alone when it came time to shop for fabric and a few things they could not grow in their gardens or raise on the small plot of land they called a farm. Grisandole did not have a tutor of any sort, for Mother feared knowledge might inspire her to seek a life beyond that which she had known all these years. Grisandole did not even fit comfortably in her own skin—she did not possess breasts as other women did, and nothing between her legs but a smooth expanse of skin. If she was sure of anything, it was that she was not a girl, at least not of the human variety.

One night in her eighteenth year, at the age when most girls were marrying and starting families, Grisandole sat down to dinner with her mother in their modest, plain home of gray and weathered wood, and asked the question whose silence had preserved the uneasy distance between them for as long as she could recall.

"Mother, where did I come from?"

Mother blotted the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Her fingers were rough and red from years of hard work, and though Grisandole had shared in those chores, her hands bore no sign of wear. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm not a child anymore, Mother. I don't look like you. I don't look like anyone else. Why am I so different?"

"I vowed that I would never speak of it again. They have brought me enough misfortune―"

"Who?"

Mother glanced around suspiciously, as if she felt the gaze of unseen eyes upon her. "The good people."

"What have they to do...Oh, Mother, is that it? I am a changeling? A faery child?"

Mother's eyes grew wide with terror. "Hush! Do not speak their name―who knows what further harm they will bring to me?"

"They took your own child, and left me. That explains everything." Grisandole cleared her dishes from the table and started for her room. "I must find them."

"You would leave me behind when I have raised you all these years?"

"I know you've done what you thought was best. But I also know that you do not love me. I must find my own people. I see how others look at me. I don't belong in your world."

"Your eyes," Mother said with a bitter smile. She did not meet Grisandole's gaze but stared at the old wooden table and her chipped stoneware plate. "When I first saw you, I so hated those eyes. I did not love you as I loved my son, but in my own fashion, I came to care for you. I knew the world would be cruel to you. I only wanted to protect you from it."

"I thank you for that, Mother." Grisandole kissed the woman's cold, sallow cheek. Something was not right. She could almost feel it transmitted from her mother's skin to her lips, but she had already asked more questions tonight than Mother wanted to answer. "I will leave in the morning."

#

The world had been cruel to Mother too, Grisandole thought as she folded her homespun dresses and placed them in her satchel. She didn't fault Mother for her decisions; it was a dreadful situation.

When dawn broke, Mother was washing up in the kitchen. Grisandole crept through the house to the front door and opened it onto a drab and foggy day. She did not want a protracted goodbye when doubt filled her so. Perhaps Mother was right, and she should stay. But Mother would not live forever, human as she was, and what then? She was already ill.

"Grisandole."

"Yes, Mother?"

"I have kept many things from you. I should have told you before now, but...I don't have much time left."

"Mother, what are you saying?" Grisandole lowered her satchel and clasped the woman's hands.

"I will not stop you from leaving, not when it's so important to you. You should find them, and be with them. I have lost many things in this life, and I'm ready for it to end."

"I will come back before then. You shouldn't be alone." Grisandole grabbed her satchel. "I'll return, I promise."

Mother smiled sadly and closed the door. No one returned from the realm of faery, or if they did, so much time had passed that all their loved ones had perished.

Delicate fronds of mist encircled white birch-tree trunks, and dew clung to green buds just beginning to sprout into leaves. Branches had grown over both sides of the path twisting through the woods, laced together like thick fingers to block her passage. Grisandole parted them and, though they snapped back as if to strike her, entered the forest. The call of the faery mounds hidden within tugged at her, welcoming her home after all these years.

When the sun began to sink, joyous voices rose in song. Grisandole spotted a break in the trees. A ring of figures danced in twilight's purple shadows, hands joined as their singing drove the clouds away and welcome the moon to their celebration. She threw down her satchel and ran to them before she noticed that they too did not look like her, shimmering with an ethereal beauty she did not possess.

The song abruptly ended, and the faeries in the circle turned to stare at the intruder.

"You," a woman said. She wore a gleaming gown whose colors shifted when she moved, and white flowers dotted her hair. "What are you doing here?"

"My mother told me where I came from. I am one of you. I want to return home where I belong."

Their laughter was like the ringing of church bells, beautiful and cold. "Where you belong? Look at yourself. Why do you think we gave you away for the human child?"

"But I-I am faery..."

"Go home, changeling. You are not one of us. You never were." The woman linked hands with the men on either side of her. Grisandole picked up her satchel as tears burned her eyes, blurring the figures into streaks of light painted upon the forest's dark canvas. She ran down the path until her heart was near to breaking, collapsed against a tree trunk, and covered her face with her hands.

She didn't know how long she sat there; long enough for the song to end and the clouds to return, for rain to patter against the branches like hundreds of footsteps. Her plain blue dress soaked through, and strands of her long, dark hair clung to her face. Shivering, she drew up her knees and bowed her head into the crook of her arm.

"What are you doing out here? You'll be ill by morning if you don't get inside."

A young man as beautiful as the faeries, with the same fair hair and pale eyes, knelt beside her. He studied her, not in the anxious way most people did but with compassion. The emotion that had often driven her mother to clutch her dead husband's clothing and weep when she thought Grisandole wasn't looking awakened in her heart.

"Have you gotten lost? I would offer you a place to go, only I haven't one myself. I ran away from them."

"From who?"

"The faeries. They want me to marry their princess."

"What is wrong with that? Hundreds of mortal men seek the faeries. They are beautiful creatures, kind to those they fancy. They could make you young forever if they chose."

"She's lovely indeed, but...I don't particularly care for...her." He shook his head. "I'm grateful for all they've done in raising me, and I don't wish to offend them by rejecting her, so I ran away. It seemed my only choice."

The remnants of her heart left after the faeries' dismissal shattered once and for all. She could inspire no feeling in a man, even one who did not look at her with unease. "It is an odd thing, for a man to feel nothing toward a faery woman."

"As odd as a changeling, perhaps." A smile played across his lips.

Grisandole's cheeks grew hot, and she turned away. Her own skin made her itch like the wool dress she wore.

"You said they raised you?"

"That's right. For as long as I can remember."

"Because you looked like them more than I did," she said softly. "I know who you are. I see her face in yours."

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother. She took care of me."

He stared at her, rain running down the sides of his nose and into his mouth. "Is she still alive?" He grasped Grisandole's shoulders. "You must tell me!"

"Yes, but we don't have much time. I will bring you to her. Hurry. We can make it back before dawn." She grasped his hand and pulled him up. His skin was warm despite the rain, not at all like hers.

Who could love such a thing as I? she thought, grateful that the downpour concealed her tears.

"Thank you." His smile was so painfully beautiful that Grisandole had to look away. If only you were someone else, it said, I might love you.

She led him along the muddy path toward Mother's cottage and never once let go of him. His might be the only hand ever to touch her willingly.

#

Dawn's first rays burned away the fog that had settled on the trail. Through the branches, Grisandole could see the little cottage and a curl of black smoke rising from the chimney. With what little she knew of Mother's illness, even the single day she'd been absent might be too long.

"We're here. Follow me." Wet, cold, and eager for a change of clothes, Grisandole pushed through the brush and ran across the grass to the front door. "Mother!" she called as she opened it. The young man followed.

"Grisandole? What are you doing back so soon?" Mother emerged from the kitchen with a dull paring knife and a potato in her hands. Both slipped from her grasp, and the last spots of color in her cheeks drained away as if she were staring at a ghost.

"You have his eyes. You have Stephan's eyes."

"I-I think I'm your son. The good folk called me Cailean."

"We named you Brennan." Mother's smile lit up her eyes and smoothed away the lines of sorrow etched into her face, destroying for a moment the illness that consumed her. Then she began to cry. "Our son," she whispered, embracing him with the love Grisandole could only dream of. "I have been granted my last wish after all. I have so much to tell you. Come. I must lie down. Sit with me and talk."

"Mother?" Grisandole said softly.

Brennan glanced back at her as he disappeared into Mother's room, and closed the door behind him.

#

Grisandole sat above a grotto where a flight of narrow steps climbed between two precipitous rocks. According to local legend, its builders—the faeries, of course—would grant the deepest wish of anyone who passed through without touching the sides. No human could ever hope to squeeze through the passage, and thus the faeries never had to uphold their end of the bargain. She was not surprised. Their pleasures stemmed from trickery and manipulation, for beauty could do as it wished without care. The Faery Steps alone offered a chance to find her true form, but only the smallest of faeries could pass the test, and she had none of their magic despite her origins. No glamours to cast so Mother would see a child she could love; no enchantments to weave her way into Brennan's heart. She could have loved him, wholly and faithfully, though his handsomeness was the least of her reasons.

She awaited the shadows that inevitably swarmed the sun-dappled grotto. The Cappel would come for her. Whatever dark place spawned the legendary demon dog seemed just as suitable, since she had no home in either the human or the faery worlds.

"Grisandole!" A voice echoed off the rocks' faces, and she peered over the edge of the steps. Brennan was standing at their base and wearing the clothes of Mother's dead husband. His father. "Come down from there! She's gone."

"Mother...is dead?"

"Just a little while ago. I tried to find you before it happened, but you'd run off."

"Wouldn't you? She barely noticed I was there. She had her son back, and I...I meant nothing to her. I don't belong anywhere, Brennan. My own people rejected me. No one wants a changeling." Grisandole swiped at her tears and waved him off. "I will wait for the Cappel."

"Should I feel sorry for you, then? Because I don't. Mother wanted you there; she wanted to thank you. I don't know the kind of pain you have suffered, Grisandole, but you do belong somewhere. Maybe even with me."

"You barely know me."

"There is a reason for our meeting in the woods, and I'll prove it to you. Come down the Faery Steps and make your wish. I know you're not what you appear."

"I'm afraid," she whispered.

Brennan held out his hand.

Darkness crawled across the grotto. A malevolent howl, a sound that generations of people living near the steps recognized as death, pierced the silence. So much of her had died already that physical death was almost an afterthought.

"The Cappel! Hurry!"

The shadows sculpted themselves into the shape of a dog, its red eyes radiant with wickedness. Grisandole froze.

"Go!" Brennan shouted. The huge creature sprang from the rocks and lunged at him. "Run!"

"I have only one chance." Grisandole turned to the side, sucked in her breath, and started down the steps. The Cappel was tearing at Brennan's clothing, snapping its slavering jaws at his face and arms. The rocks closed in around her; the ancient steps crumbled beneath her feet. She put out her hand to keep herself from stumbling but jerked it back in time to avoid touching the stone. Grisandole could see nothing in the tenebrous chasm, and the opening at the bottom of the steps may as well have been miles away.

One chance. The soles of her shoes slipped against wet rock. She willed herself to be small enough, to perform her one and only feat of magic before she renounced the world of faery forever, as they had done to her.

The shoulders of her dress began to tear and her feet to burst from the little slippers covering them. Grisandole pitched forward out of the rift, and the seams of her frock split from her underarms all the way down to her waist.

"What is happening to me?" she cried with a stranger's voice. A man's voice. She discovered muscles where once she had none, in her arms and chest and thighs. Her face had changed too, her jaw rough with its first growth of hair. She peeked beneath her tattered underclothes and gasped. She had never before seen a naked man.

The Cappel had pinned Brennan to the ground with its two front paws. It growled and, as moonlight broke through the clouds to wash away the shadows, bounded into the darkness. Brennan was scratched and bleeding, and held his head when he finally managed to sit up.

"It worked." Grisandole laughed, unable to contain the joy in his heart. "It worked!"

"They let you have your wish." Brennan stumbled to him and cupped his face in an affectionate gesture as foreign to Grisandole as his new body was. "And mine. But what will we call you now?"

"Diarmad," he said with barely a thought. "It means 'free man,' and now I am."

"We both are." Brennan pressed his lips to Diarmad's. The kiss robbed him of breath, for in it, despite his unfamiliarity with such tenderness, was the understanding of humanity's greatest gift. He did not know what to do with his hands, so he set them on Diarmad's waist. The strange, delightful tickle in his belly bubbled unabated for as long as their mouths explored each other. Other parts of him responded in equally wondrous ways.

"It was you I sought all this time," Brennan said, "though I didn't know it."

"Thank you for finding me."

There was more to say, so much more. For now, they spoke only in kisses.

The rest of the clouds dissipated, allowing the moon to light their way out of the grotto. Perhaps, in their eternal ingenuity, the faeries had planned it all along. Whatever the case, Diarmad gazed at the thousands of stars above him and thanked each one.

Jennifer Loring has been a DJ, an insurance claims assistant, and an editor, to name a few. Her short fiction has been published widely both online and in print; she has worked with Crystal Lake Publishing, DarkFuse, and Crowded Quarantine, among many others. Longer work most notably includes the contemporary/sports romance series The Firebird Trilogy and the psychological horror novella Conduits. She lives in Philadelphia, PA with her husband, their turtle, and two basset hounds.

Heaven Scent

Chantal Boudreau

I roll in the garden in the dark of night, feeling the soft leaves of rapunzel against my skin and wishing it was her hair. I thrust my face into the tickling green and breathe deeply. It smells like her, earthy and natural but at the same time supernaturally enticing. I imagine those leaves are her fingers, gently teasing at my scarred face --- or her tongue, warm and supple, tracing my collarbone with subtle invitation. My whole body yearns for her, but all I have in her place is this garden and its heavenly scent...

My mother and I had started working for Mistress when I was only seven. We were living in terrible poverty at the time, so the warm gruel in our stomachs and roof over our head was a welcome end to the worst kind of misery, even though Mistress drove mother like a slave.

Despite my young age, I was required to help too. I could dust, I could polish anything not easily breakable and I could sweep, so that was what I had to do. I offered to work in the garden as early as that, but this only made Mistress angry. I was not to go in the garden. The rapunzel especially was off-limits. Only she was allowed to venture there and she would be the sole person tending it.

I understood perfectly and I wish I could have simply obeyed, but something about that garden constantly demanded my attention, like a worm dangling on a hook. The lure was hard to ignore. Mistress caught me gazing longingly one day at the door that led out to the garden and she gave me a curious look.

"Who is your father, child?"

I shrugged. I couldn't answer her. I only knew that my mother had been working at the castle when she had ended up pregnant with me and had been forced to leave her position there when it had become obvious. From that time onward, she had lived the life of abject poverty typical for a single mother, begging on the street and working any odd jobs that came her way to keep from starving.

Mistress surprised me then by approaching me and taking my face in her hand, her grip firm but not painful. She stared into my eyes, wearing a thinly veiled smile, as if my reaction to her would answer some underlying question.

The way I did respond embarrassed me. At a distance, Mistress frightened me, intimidating me with her strident voice and stern demeanor. But when I got close enough to smell her, she exuded a hint of the same scent that crept in from the garden. Even though she made me nervous, that delightful perfume made me want to snuggle my little body into the drapes of her skirt and savour the warmth that I found there. The thought of it made my flesh tingle and stole my breath away.

She must have caught the desire in my expression because her stifled smile broadened, with an accompanying gleam in her eye.

"Never mind, child. I know who your father is. Your eagerness in the face of my magic betrays it – yet it's all the more reason why I forbid you to go into that garden. If I ever catch you disobeying me, I'll beat you so hard you'll never walk again, and your mother will have to drag you from here when I throw her out too. I'm sure you know that's no idle threat."

I nodded and shivered. There wasn't a smidgen of my person that doubted she spoke anything but the truth.

Even with that threat hanging over me, the garden continued to call to me, its scent an olfactory song serenading me every time I approached that door. I still think it's a miracle I managed to resist, considering a child's tendency to act on impulse, even in the face of great danger.

I never got a look at the garden from anywhere but the upstairs window. After my chores were done, on warmer days, I would sit with it open enjoying the sunlight and breathing in essence of rapunzel. That was why I played witness to an altercation one fateful spring day.

"Thief!" Mistress screeched. I shook myself free from heady reverie and glanced down into the garden below me. She held a man by the throat, a weasely creature whose eyes bugged out as he shrank in her shadow, scrabbling anxiously and unsuccessfully to get away. He appeared as weak as she did powerful. "I shall have your hands for this, if not your head. You have ruined everything. These plants are enchanted. Without the ones you have stolen, my spell will be incomplete. I have been preparing this for years, finally succeeded in growing them, and needed further years to finish it. All that time and effort is wasted."

"Please, please," he begged, his tearful words little more than a gasp. "My wife has been ill. She is heavy with child and craved greens. You had so much here...easily enough to spare for a neighbour in need. Have mercy. I must have my hands for what work I can find."

"No mercy without merit," she snapped.

She paused glaring at the little man before eying the still plentiful rapunzel. I couldn't understand why she saw the loss of a couple of them as such a sacrifice. After a few moments thought, she came to some unspoken concession.

"If you wish me to spare you, to not report this theft to the authorities, I demand compensation. When the child your wife carries is born, the babe shall be mine. That is the price I ask."

The robber's face was turning purple at that point, but he still managed to pale at the notion.

"B-b-but I could never do that. My wife would be devastated. This will be our firstborn. She has lost three already to miscarriage and a fourth was stillborn."

Mistress's lip curled into a snarl, as if the man insulted her merely by offering resistance.

"Then I suggest you present her with my ultimatum, as those are my terms. You let her choose between you or the baby. It's not as if I'm going to eat it. I have no intention of mistreating the child in any way. I merely wish to foster him or her, raised as my own offspring." She looked the thief up and down with an elitist air of arrogance. "Your son or daughter can expect a far better life with me than they would ever have with you. They might even aspire to marry royalty someday."

She set him upon his feet again, releasing his throat. Drawing in a few raspy breaths, he nodded and stooped to pick up his hat from the ground, knocked from his head during their scuffle.

"Okay – I'll take your offer to her. But I can't guarantee she'll agree to those terms."

"You have three days. If you don't come back with a promise to deliver that child to me when he or she arrives, the local militia will come calling. If your wife does accept my offer, she can gorge herself sick on my rapunzel until the birth. You can tell her that, too."

Mistress watched the man scuttle away, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast. But she looked just as dominating as ever, head high and arms crossed. She wore an expression of triumph. Whatever loss she had suffered as a result of the theft of her rapunzel she had decided could be recovered by the acquisition of that child.

#

I wasn't present when the thief returned to inform Mistress his wife was in agreement, but her mood improved and her trips out to the garden increased.

A couple of weeks later, she left the house abruptly one stormy night. I was asleep when she returned; my dreams suddenly feverish and filled with urgent things my immature mind could not comprehend. It was enough to jar me awake. I knew something was different. My surroundings were pungent with the smell of the garden, causing my heart to pound and my breath to catch.

And then I heard my greatest love cry for the first time.

The sound rang shrill but melodious – not the thin cry of a feeble child, but throaty and hale. I writhed in my blankets in response, too excited to do anything else at first.

When I found some sense of self-control, I trickled out of my bed and crept out into the hallway, peering over the banister into the lobby below. The Mistress was in the process of discarding her soggy cloak, clutching the baby she had claimed that night to her breast. She noticed a floorboard creak beneath my bare toes and looked up at me. Her smile seemed predatory, displaying more teeth than normal. She didn't appear to be agitated by the engaging scent given off by the child in her arms, a child with the sweet voice and rosy-cheeked face of an angel.

"She will be known as Rapunzel," Mistress informed me. "Since she is to replace what was taken from me. Instead of using my enchantment directly, she will serve as a tool for exacting my revenge, and you, child, will be my means of testing her."

There would be no arguing with circumstance. Why would I fight with Mistress on the matter when staying by Rapunzel's side was all that I wanted? The rule remained in place that I was not to venture into the garden, but the pull of that locale seemed negligible in the face of Rapunzel's allure. She was all that mattered to me anymore, even forgetting my mother for her sake.

The years as her companion, sharing in her tutelage and her play, offered some of my happiest memories. Every now and then Mistress would purposefully separate us and watch for my reaction, taking cruel delight as I pined for Rapunzel, losing sleep and appetite. Our reunions always brought me to tears, so blissful to have her presence restored to me. I always slept in the same bed with her on those nights, my arms curled around her small body and my face buried in her flaxen hair, which was luxurious even then. She smelled just like her namesake, which the Mistress insisted on feeding her at every meal.

I did not register that I had reached my own womanhood, despite all the signs alerting me to this, until Rapunzel arrived at hers. Mistress then began preparing her for the reserved social gatherings of high society she would be expected to attend once she turned eighteen. They would be necessary, Mistress insisted, in order to arrange a proper marriage for her.

I know that struck fear in her heart. She did not want to be paraded before stodgy old wealthy men to see who would be the highest bidder. She also wanted a chance to get out in the world and explore. She longed to taste freedom before being shackled to a man.

The idea was even more terrifying for me. I loved my Rapunzel. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her to anyone else. But what could I, a simple serving girl, ever offer her beyond friendship and service?

"You must help me flee from here, Sedalia," she whispered to me as we lay sprawled on her bed together, hand in hand and cheek to cheek. "I can't breathe here anymore. I feel like a caged animal. I need to get away and sample life on the outside. If you love me, you have to help me."

The thought of watching her leave was painful enough to cleave my heart in two. As much as I wanted to keep her with me, I did love her and I could not deny her anything. I would arrange for her escape via the garden. I believed Mistress would likely kill me for it, but I would not want to live without Rapunzel anyway.

The night before she left I braided and bound her floor-length hair, resting my chin in the crook of her neck when I was done and clasping her to me. She kissed away my tears with lips as soft as rose petals.

"Don't cry. Don't fear for me. I'll come back for you, Sedalia. I promise."

We lay together that night. We christened midnight, the moment of her full womanhood, with urgent embraces and desperate kisses, knowing we would soon be apart, her by choice and me by circumstance. The perfume of her breath and the musk of her skin had me mad with desire, wishing I could somehow fuse myself with her so that we would never again be forced to separate. Instead, I had to make do with exploring every inch of her with my hands and mouth, trying to memorize each peak and valley, each angle and curve. I was relying on those memories to preserve me in her absence.

We were not gentle with one another either. I was so enthralled with her bewitching smell and taste, an intoxicating ambrosia, that I took little care in my approach. Where I thrashed hungrily against her, pressing my body into hers as my excitement intensified, I left welts and bruises. She was equally careless in her enthusiasm. You could trace a map of our night together across my eager flesh, where knee had pressed into thigh and elbow had connected with abdomen.

I gripped her flaxen hair with both hands when she decided it was time for her to return my attentions, spanning my body with her lips and teasing my skin with her tongue until she reached the humid warmth of my folds. I moaned and gasped loudly with each lap, lost in rapture and not caring if Mistress happened to overhear the sounds of my ecstasy. I cried out with climax, waves of pleasure washing over my body for what felt like an eternity before I collapsed into my lover's embrace. Sleep claimed me soon after, entangled in her limbs and sedated by her scent.

I slept fitfully however, aware that it might be our last night together for quite some time, and wanting to be sure to wrest myself awake before the break of day. When I saw light faintly encroaching upon the horizon, I shook Rapunzel from sleep as well. She remained groggy as I took her by the hand and led her down to the door that exited into the garden. It took all my strength not to cry when I said good-bye and wished her safe travels.

The plan had been to return to my room and make it look like nothing was out of the ordinary – that she was just choosing to sleep in that morning. Instead I simply lay in the grass by the garden, breathing in the lingering essence of my love that was almost indistinguishable from the scent of the one remaining rapunzel plant for that year nestled in the earth there. It had gone to seed and the leaves were bitter, but that did not stop me from eventually rising and devouring what was there, spreading the seed into the soil on the chance that it might grow again there someday. Then I lay down a second time, only this time in the dirt, enjoying the feel of the greens in my belly and missing Rapunzel with all of my heart.

I fell asleep there, lulled into slumber by my lack of proper rest the night before and the warmth of the sun. That was where Mistress found me.

I think I was fortunate that she was too vested in hunting down her errant ward to waste much time expending her rage upon me. The beating I was given was savage and bloody, but over quite quickly. She did not leave me crippled as she had threatened to in the past, but she did maim my face and slashed my breast.

"This will be a far worse punishment," she told me, her voice hard and cruel. "She will never again be able to look upon you with love, disfigured as you now are – only with revulsion and pity."

I wept until I fell asleep once more, but it was never from the pain. I wept only from the loss of Rapunzel, because of the hole in my soul she had left behind and out of the despair that even if I did ever see her again, she would no longer want me.

Mistress did not leave to search for her missing foster daughter alone. With several hunters and henchmen at her beck and call, she scoured the surrounding countryside and nearby towns hoping to find her. I felt sorry for my Rapunzel. She was only one young woman with limited resources and Mistress had set a small army upon her trail. Her escape attempt was doomed.

I knew the moment they returned her to the house. I was roused from a deep sleep by the sudden restoration of her heady, mesmerizing scent. They had found her not far from the castle where my mother had once worked. Capturing Rapunzel, they ignored her pleas for mercy and brought her back to Mistress as they had been directed.

Misery fails to describe what Rapunzel and I both were feeling. As much as I wanted to go to her, to offer comfort in any way she needed, I couldn't bear the thought of facing her scorn. As she moped around the house, I watched her from shadowed niches and around shielding doors. I think she knew I was there but she cared little about anything, even me, wallowing in her sadness.

"I have chosen not to reschedule your coming out party," Mistress informed her, a couple of weeks after Rapunzel's attempt at escape. "Your little outing has already baited the trap, and making you taboo will only add to your irresistible allure. The one who wronged me is too old to target now. He does not wear his age well, absent-minded and decrepit, so I shall find vengeance by way of his son. We will force him to come to you, however. We will make it impossible to reach you, and when the time is right, when he is weak from obsession, I will kill him myself. Prepare your things. Tomorrow, you go to your new home. If you continue to displease me the way you have in the past, it may be your last."

Still self-conscious, I could not leave Rapunzel to struggle with the weight of this news alone. If she could stand to look at my scarred face and damaged breast, I wanted to try to hug away her fears and kiss away her distress.

I held my breath as I stepped out of the shadows. She gasped, clearly distressed by my appearance, but then she extended her hands out to me, her expression filled with pity and guilt rather than disgust.

"Oh, Sedalia, how I have missed you. I thought you hated me for leaving, you only to be caught as quickly as I was. She did this to you because you helped me, didn't she? I beg you're forgiveness. Come closer, please. Hold me if you can bear to do so. It would seem she means to separate us once more, possibly for good."

Tears spilled down my marred cheeks as I clutched her to me, my sobs matching her own. Neither of us knew exactly what the Mistress had planned for her, but I was going to offer my love every comfort I could now that I was sure she could stand the sight of me.

Her kisses were just as sweet and inviting as ever as her fingers traced the scars that Mistress's violence had inflicted upon me. I drank every sensation in, offering my own careful caresses in return. As I felt my passion rising, my skin ablaze with yearning, I could hear arousal in Rapunzel's soft moans. She bucked her hips against me when we embraced and draped her loose, luxurious hair over me when we fell upon her sheets.

Swimming in those golden tresses, I made sure there wasn't a single speck of her body that went neglected, either teased with my tongue or fondled with my fingers. Her moans intensified, rising in pitch and fervor as I focussed my attentions on the parts of her I knew would elicit the most pleasure. My own excitement rose in sync with hers, even though she was too distracted by my ministrations to return my attentions. The tension within me built with every desperate sound from her and as I felt her stiffen and arch before following with shuddering release, I did the same, pressing myself into her perspiration-drenched flesh for greater ecstasy.

We lay there clinging to each other until Mistress and one of her hired thugs came to fetch Rapunzel. She fought to stay with me, calling out my name as they dragged her away. I wanted to weep again, but all I felt was numb, too frightened of Mistress to try to help. I wasn't that strong, physically or otherwise, so any attempt would be futile.

Instead, I returned to her bed, breathing her scent from her sheets until the smell eventually dissipated. That was when I finally found the tears to grieve her loss.

I had no idea where Mistress had taken her, but it was not like our childhood separations. Rapunzel was gone from the house, I knew that much. My desire to see her again drove me to do something I once would have considered unthinkable. For Rapunzel's sake, I followed Mistress when she left on one of her mysterious outings, believing she would lead me to wherever she had imprisoned my one and only love.

My intuition had not failed me. Mistress took a thin windy path deep into the woods, to a barren area where most of the trees were dead or dying. I knew we were approaching Rapunzel when her heavenly scent was carried to me on the wind. That was when I saw the top of the stark spire that contained her, looming ominous over the treetops.

I crept carefully up behind Mistress as she approached the sheer wall, devoid of any door, nook or cranny. The tower had but one window high up in the air. The wall looked impossible to scale or descend safely. This was why Rapunzel could not escape, for a fall from such a height would likely be fatal. I hoped she would never be inclined to jump rather than remain Mistress's prisoner.

Mistress gazed up and called Rapunzel's name. When my love arrived at the window and peered out, I heard the sorceress murmur an incantation: "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair." As if alive, her lengthy golden tresses wound themselves around a metallic peg at the window and began to grow. The snaky strands continued to extend themselves until they finally reached the one who had summoned them. With further magic, Mistress used that rope of hair to climb up to the window and join her foster daughter. Unfortunately, the same spell would never offer a means of escape to the one imprisoned within the tower.

Unable to spy on the goings on within, but equally unable to force myself to leave knowing Rapunzel was there, I lingered at the base of the tower. I hoped that once Mistress left I could activate her spell and join Rapunzel. I might not be able to free her, but at least I could be with her again. I shifted about with impatience, biding my time, but I soon noticed I wasn't alone. On the other side of the tower, partially hidden by foliage, I spotted a young man also waiting.

I wasn't startled by his presence, even though he seemed very much out of place in the eerie forest. What shocked me was how much his face resembled my own, or at least what it had looked like before I had been disfigured by Mistress's punishment.

I stared at him, and he at me, in silence - until Mistress finally descended again, reversing her spell once she had set down again upon the forest floor.

I did not follow her when she left, but kept out of sight waiting until I was sure she was gone. I wouldn't be able to stay long, facing new punishment if she discovered I had left the house. The other one...Him...was bolder than I. He stepped out almost immediately, when Mistress was likely but not guaranteed to be out of earshot. He called to Rapunzel quietly, his face eager. I remained hidden, intimidated by his forwardness.

She appeared at the window and upon seeing him there, her face lit up the way it used to do for me.

"You came back," she said with a laugh.

"I promised I would. I always will for you," he replied, "Only this time I came with plans for your rescue."

Rapunzel reached for him, smiling, and he beamed back at her, speaking the words my Mistress had before. He scaled Rapunzel's hair as easily as if there was nothing in the way of distance between them. She laughed louder as he got to the top, pulling him in through the window with great haste while her hair unraveled from its peg.

My heart went cold then. I sensed I would not be welcome along with this other visitor. I had failed to help her, ugly and shamed, and now he had taken my place. Unable to face such loss and disgrace, I slunk back through the woods to the house. I had not been away long enough for Mistress to notice I was missing – not that I really cared anymore.

I lost all will to live after that. My days were so filled with malaise that I almost didn't notice the fact that Mistress did not return from her next outing to the tower. Days passed, in fact, before I forced myself to follow that windy path deep into the woods.

I found what remained of Mistress sprawled at the base of the tower. The scavengers had already had at her and the flies were fighting over whatever was left. I'm not sure how she died...slain by some weapon...pushed...or did she merely fall from up high. I doubt I'll ever know.

The tower was abandoned and I have not seen Rapunzel since. I'm assuming she has taken up with her rescuer. I only wish I could have been the one to save her. I should have been. Instead, I wander the halls of the house alone. It is just me and my mother here now. No one has ever come to claim it after Mistress's death. I'm uncertain if anyone other than me, and perhaps Rapunzel along with her new love, knows that Mistress met her demise.

Whatever trap Mistress had tried to set, it had not offered her the vengeance she was hoping for. After some talk with my mother, I now know the truth. Mistress had been in love with our king but he had rejected her to marry another for political purposes. She had been planning on using the rapunzel as her own personal love potion, to lure him away from his family and regal responsibilities, but that failed when part of the required harvest was stolen and ingested by another – or rather by two others at the same time. A portion of the magic was a part of Rapunzel, so Mistress took her in and infused her with the rest, year after year, all but the single plant gone to seed that I had devoured. If Mistress could not draw in the king, she would take his son from him instead.

Mother told me the king or any child of his blood would find Rapunzel irresistible, her scent an olfactory beacon, a siren's song of smell. Mistress expected the prince to spend the remainder of his days pining away at the base of the tower for a love unattainable. She never expected him to be so patient or resourceful, his sire being neither of these things. She never anticipated he would stand up against her, outwit her and win.

But he did.

Apparently, we, the king's children, have the tendency to take after our mothers in all but our physical appearance. As it turns out, I am a bastard child of Mistress's original target as well. That was why she had used me all those years to test Rapunzel's effectiveness as bait. That's why I'm so lost without my first and only love now. I crave her the way a starving woman craves food, a thirsting woman water, or a drowning woman air, but she is no longer mine to have.

I'm not welcome at the castle, an ugly reminder of my father's infidelity. I cannot offer Rapunzel the same things my half-brother can, and his undying love is no doubt as sure as my own. Chances are she'll never return to the house that once caged her.

The one solace I have is that the seed I scattered from the last rapunzel plant did sprout in the garden. When I sit in the middle of the bumper crop and close my eyes, feeling the softness of the leaves and breathing in that smell, it's as if she is here with me. While I linger amongst this enchanted foliage, I can remember those sweet moments we had together and fantasize what life would have been like if she were still with me. I can also dream, as I touch myself in a stirring way, that someday she will return to me.

For now, I will at least be able to take comfort in this bountiful place – one that offers me a temporary perfumed escape into heaven.

Chantal Boudreau is a speculative fiction writer with a focus in horror and fantasy from Sambro, Nova Scotia. She has published in Canada with Exile Editions in their Dead North and Clockwork Canada anthologies and her other Canadian publications include stories in Postscripts to Darkness Volume 5 and Masked Mosaic: Canadian Super Stories. Outside of Canada, to date, she has published more than fifty stories with a variety of American and British publishers. Find out more about Chantal at: http://chantellyb.wordpress.com.

Supposed Crimes is a LGBTQ publisher focusing on genre fiction, crossovers, and the 3rd Wave. Come for the paranormal creatures, human heroes, and rock stars. Stay for the sex.

