Ensnared
Page 5
“Dreams.” Red sniffles. “One day, I’ll bring dreams to our kind, Father. They’ll be in abundance everywhere, not just in the cemetery. One day, I’ll free the spirits, so they can sleep inside our gardens, brushing our windows at night, and bumping against our feet in the day. I’ll bring imagination to our world so everyone might always be with those they treasure.”
He pats her head, a tender gesture that almost fills the gaping hole in her chest. “That would make you the most beloved queen of all time, scarlet rosebud. But until then we are bound to follow rules like everyone else. We cannot abuse our power and status, or endanger our subjects. No matter how much we love her.” He blots his eyes with a handkerchief. “Understand?”
Red nods.
The scene scrambles and blurs. I’m dragged out of the memory and dropped back into my seat, cradled by the darkness around me. A knocking sensation shakes my skull, as if a fist punches it from the inside. I press my hands to my temples until it stops.
It must be the repudiated memory nesting inside my cranium, because I didn’t experience anything like that the last time I was here.
The screen flicks on again. A vivid rainbow smears across the room to jerk me back to the stage. My bones settle into Red’s, and my skin conforms to hers.
She’s older by six years or so. Her father married a widowed netherling after her mother’s death, so the Red Court would have a queen to rule until Red was of age. But in just a few more months, Red will have her coronation, and the crown-magic will fill her blood . . .
Red hides behind some bushes in the castle courtyard’s garden. The purple-striped zinnias wilt from the anger seeping off of her as she spies on her father and younger stepsister. Grenadine is the daughter from the new queen’s prior marriage, and has proven to be a thorn in Red’s side.
It isn’t enough that her hair shimmers with the sheen of rubies, and her silver eyes dance beneath thick lavender lashes. She’s constantly forgetful—a blank slate waiting to be written upon. Her frailty and dependence offer a distraction for the king’s grieving heart, one that Red’s strength and independence can’t.
The king leans down to show Grenadine for the hundredth time how to play croquet, having already reminded her for the thousandth time he’s her new father. He points to the U-shaped metal hoops that form a diamond-patterned run in the ground. Pink and gray stakes mark each end, and two sets of balls lie in a box lined with satin.
“We follow the circuit of wickets,” the king says gently. “My red color races against your silver. The first side to get their balls through the wickets in order and hit the peg wins.”
Grenadine shakes her head, her ruby curls bouncing about her shoulders. “What is a peg, again?”
“The stake, at the end of the run.”
“And a wicket . . . is that this?” Grenadine holds up a flamingo-necked fae whose body has been magically stiffened to the shape of a hockey stick. The blush-colored feathers ruffle as if the fae is offended by the misnomer.
“That is a mallet, darling. Wickets are the hoops we hit our balls through.”
Grenadine’s dimples appear like they always do when she’s bewildered. “Oh, Father, I simply can’t remember.”
He smiles, charmed by her mindless grace. “I’ve found a way around that, I think. Sir Bill?” He waves someone into the scene.
Bill the Lizard—a reptilian netherling with the ability to write without ink—scrambles into view and bows. His red tailcoat and pants shift to green leaves, matching the bush he’s beside so convincingly, he appears to be a decapitated head and clawed hands floating in midair.
Grenadine curtsies in return. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
The lizard smiles, beguiled by her sweetness like everyone.
“Sir Bill is the Red Court’s stenographer. He has the ability to eat whispers,” the king explains. “And afterward, he can write them out on any surface, where they’ll adhere forever as quiet murmurings, so they can be heard and not seen. Whisper something you wish to remember.”
Grenadine mumbles the rules of croquet she heard moments before.
Bill’s chameleon-like jaws unhinge, and his tongue snaps out in midair, capturing the echo of her whispers. His bulbous eyes rotate in different directions as he swallows a rather large lump. Next, he takes a velvet ribbon from his pocket and writes on it with a clawed fingertip.
Blinking, he hands the red strip to the king.
“Listen,” the king says, holding it to Grenadine’s ear.
She waits, then bursts into rosy-cheeked giggles. “It whispered the rules!”
The king ties the ribbon in a bow around her pinky. “Now you’ll never forget them. I’ve asked Sir Bill to be your very own royal consultant. He’ll make enchanted ribbons for as long as you need.”
Grenadine crinkles her nose. “Bill? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
The king chuckles. “Of course you have. He’s right here.”
Bill the Lizard takes another bow.
Weary of the spectacle, Red concentrates on the ribbon tied upon her sister’s finger. Her body glows crimson as her magic unties the bow. The velvet strip flutters from Grenadine to land in Red’s palm. She steps out from her hiding place.
The king’s face flushes. He dismisses Bill, sending him with Grenadine into the palace so they can bring more whispers to life.
“Why would you do that?” Red’s father asks her, reaching for the stolen ribbon.
Red curls her fingers around it. “Perhaps I should appoint Bill to make ribbons for you, so you might remember you have another daughter. One whom you never spend time with.”
The king looks down at his red slippers. “Ribbons wouldn’t help. For I haven’t forgotten.”
Red’s chin stiffens. “She’s not even yours! I am, by blood.”
“Yes, my scarlet rosebud. Every day you look more and more like your mother. And every day I feel the pain of being torn away from her anew. You’re braver than me.”
“That’s why I’m going to be queen,” Red says, trying to harden her heart.
“Yes, because you embrace the things that remind you of her. You drink ash in your tea, to remember how she shushed you when you were a babe. You ask Cook for her favorite Tumtum-berry tarts, so you might remember sharing them with her. And you hum her songs.”
He pats her head, a tender gesture that almost fills the gaping hole in her chest. “That would make you the most beloved queen of all time, scarlet rosebud. But until then we are bound to follow rules like everyone else. We cannot abuse our power and status, or endanger our subjects. No matter how much we love her.” He blots his eyes with a handkerchief. “Understand?”
Red nods.
The scene scrambles and blurs. I’m dragged out of the memory and dropped back into my seat, cradled by the darkness around me. A knocking sensation shakes my skull, as if a fist punches it from the inside. I press my hands to my temples until it stops.
It must be the repudiated memory nesting inside my cranium, because I didn’t experience anything like that the last time I was here.
The screen flicks on again. A vivid rainbow smears across the room to jerk me back to the stage. My bones settle into Red’s, and my skin conforms to hers.
She’s older by six years or so. Her father married a widowed netherling after her mother’s death, so the Red Court would have a queen to rule until Red was of age. But in just a few more months, Red will have her coronation, and the crown-magic will fill her blood . . .
Red hides behind some bushes in the castle courtyard’s garden. The purple-striped zinnias wilt from the anger seeping off of her as she spies on her father and younger stepsister. Grenadine is the daughter from the new queen’s prior marriage, and has proven to be a thorn in Red’s side.
It isn’t enough that her hair shimmers with the sheen of rubies, and her silver eyes dance beneath thick lavender lashes. She’s constantly forgetful—a blank slate waiting to be written upon. Her frailty and dependence offer a distraction for the king’s grieving heart, one that Red’s strength and independence can’t.
The king leans down to show Grenadine for the hundredth time how to play croquet, having already reminded her for the thousandth time he’s her new father. He points to the U-shaped metal hoops that form a diamond-patterned run in the ground. Pink and gray stakes mark each end, and two sets of balls lie in a box lined with satin.
“We follow the circuit of wickets,” the king says gently. “My red color races against your silver. The first side to get their balls through the wickets in order and hit the peg wins.”
Grenadine shakes her head, her ruby curls bouncing about her shoulders. “What is a peg, again?”
“The stake, at the end of the run.”
“And a wicket . . . is that this?” Grenadine holds up a flamingo-necked fae whose body has been magically stiffened to the shape of a hockey stick. The blush-colored feathers ruffle as if the fae is offended by the misnomer.
“That is a mallet, darling. Wickets are the hoops we hit our balls through.”
Grenadine’s dimples appear like they always do when she’s bewildered. “Oh, Father, I simply can’t remember.”
He smiles, charmed by her mindless grace. “I’ve found a way around that, I think. Sir Bill?” He waves someone into the scene.
Bill the Lizard—a reptilian netherling with the ability to write without ink—scrambles into view and bows. His red tailcoat and pants shift to green leaves, matching the bush he’s beside so convincingly, he appears to be a decapitated head and clawed hands floating in midair.
Grenadine curtsies in return. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
The lizard smiles, beguiled by her sweetness like everyone.
“Sir Bill is the Red Court’s stenographer. He has the ability to eat whispers,” the king explains. “And afterward, he can write them out on any surface, where they’ll adhere forever as quiet murmurings, so they can be heard and not seen. Whisper something you wish to remember.”
Grenadine mumbles the rules of croquet she heard moments before.
Bill’s chameleon-like jaws unhinge, and his tongue snaps out in midair, capturing the echo of her whispers. His bulbous eyes rotate in different directions as he swallows a rather large lump. Next, he takes a velvet ribbon from his pocket and writes on it with a clawed fingertip.
Blinking, he hands the red strip to the king.
“Listen,” the king says, holding it to Grenadine’s ear.
She waits, then bursts into rosy-cheeked giggles. “It whispered the rules!”
The king ties the ribbon in a bow around her pinky. “Now you’ll never forget them. I’ve asked Sir Bill to be your very own royal consultant. He’ll make enchanted ribbons for as long as you need.”
Grenadine crinkles her nose. “Bill? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
The king chuckles. “Of course you have. He’s right here.”
Bill the Lizard takes another bow.
Weary of the spectacle, Red concentrates on the ribbon tied upon her sister’s finger. Her body glows crimson as her magic unties the bow. The velvet strip flutters from Grenadine to land in Red’s palm. She steps out from her hiding place.
The king’s face flushes. He dismisses Bill, sending him with Grenadine into the palace so they can bring more whispers to life.
“Why would you do that?” Red’s father asks her, reaching for the stolen ribbon.
Red curls her fingers around it. “Perhaps I should appoint Bill to make ribbons for you, so you might remember you have another daughter. One whom you never spend time with.”
The king looks down at his red slippers. “Ribbons wouldn’t help. For I haven’t forgotten.”
Red’s chin stiffens. “She’s not even yours! I am, by blood.”
“Yes, my scarlet rosebud. Every day you look more and more like your mother. And every day I feel the pain of being torn away from her anew. You’re braver than me.”
“That’s why I’m going to be queen,” Red says, trying to harden her heart.
“Yes, because you embrace the things that remind you of her. You drink ash in your tea, to remember how she shushed you when you were a babe. You ask Cook for her favorite Tumtum-berry tarts, so you might remember sharing them with her. And you hum her songs.”
