Through the Thorns is available on Createspace (paperback) and Amazon (paperback + Kindle digital file).
This is my four novel, still self-published because I’m still poor and independent. It probably reads more like a young adult novel than anything, though hopefully it should still have value to an older audience. It’s based on several classic fairy tales mashed together with a lesbian twist. It reads vaguely like young slice-of-life, if your life were set in a dreary fantasyland filled with evil stepmothers, kind princes, crazy relations, and very helpful animals. I wrote this one quite a while ago but just got around to getting it betaed for print, and I’m hoping to grow my lesbian fantasy body of work in the future. Long story short, it’s about Amalthea, a somewhat-socially-awkward princess who recently lost her parents and gained a less-than-nice stepmother, is ‘kidnapped’ by her witch of a step-aunt. There she’s forced to cook and clean endlessly, and even if she did know how to escape, she couldn’t go back to her castle—not with the new queen on the thrown. Fortunately, she rather likes one of her step-cousins, beastly curse or no.
It should be an easy read, just around 68k. So, so much love to SpesAbrin for betaing for me. I’m putting a preview here, and you can ask me any questions or comments and/or view bonus content via my tumblr. Thank you to everyone who’s ever been nice about any of my stories. Someday I would like to really be a writer and be able to afford just writing both fanfiction and original stories all day. You’re part of that dream, so thank you. :)
Chapter 0 (preview)
His death is closely followed by her inauguration, a dazzling spectacle of colour and light.
The sun itself is tired. Millions of candles line the palace walls and tables in its stead, the windows open wide to the oncoming stars. The crystal chandeliers have all been lit, and the marble columns are lined with one glowing ring after the other, which casts the growing crowd in a flickering array of radiance. Outside, the villagers have found their own torches to line the square, and the dancing ghosts of their fires shine under the great doors, throwing the guards’ shadows wide.
Every last bit of space in the great hall has been filled. Lords, ladies, and the general upper class amass around the center stage in a bustling horde, aflutter with gasps and gossip. This is the first good news in nearly a month since the Heart King’s passing; it’s the first true reason to smile. Even those too poor to afford entrance to the party are abuzz beyond its doors, waiting in earnest for news of their new queen’s grand arrival.
They don’t know what Princess Amalthea does of that queen, of course. But she can’t rob them of those smiles, not now. It’s been hard enough on all of them. Tucked around the corner in the hall above the ballroom, Amalthea waits with that queen for the festivities to begin. She doesn’t feel festive, but she tells herself that no matter who the new queen was, she still wouldn’t be ready to move on. She’s not sure if she’s proud or not of all her citizens that are.
For nearly half a century, the late Heart King ruled strong, and the land of Heart knew nothing but peace and prosperity. Poverty, crime, and even drought were abolished decades ago, and the King’s funeral was enough to bring every eye in the village to tears. Ever since his first wife’s passing, he’d never been the same, but even so, his sudden death came as a great shock. With his only daughter still too young to ascend to the throne, the people of Heart were grateful for his new wife’s instantaneous action. Though they were only together for a mere few months, her speech at his funeral was truly inspirational. Her proclamation the following week aroused immediate hope, with a firm address to the people of her kingdom and promises of continual harmony. By the time her official inaugural ball’s schedule was announced, the people were more than ready for a good celebration. After all, not a single citizen held then, nor holds now, any doubts that the King would’ve wanted only their happiness.
Amalthea tries to keep that in mind, too, but she has a considerably harder time than her citizens. She’s holding her breath out of sight, nestled a few paces down the corridor, knowing full well her father wouldn’t make her do this. Even his advisor—now the queen’s—looks uncomfortable, standing rigidly beside them. The other servants have all left for below. Amalthea’s stepmother, on the other hand, is a bristling porcupine.
“Of course you have to go, child,” she insists, despite Amalthea’s silence. The advisor, Trin, looks at the queen sharply—no one ever addresses the princess as ‘child,’ but how does one correct a queen? “Everyone will be expecting you. It’s a royal duty. How lucky for you I came along—you would never have been fit to rule.” A final red strand behind her ear, and the new queen of Heart stops fussing with her hair. Rather than turn to the person she’s speaking to, she begins to strike regal posses in the full-length mirror fixed to the wall.
Trin, always in the precarious situation of disagreeing with the new queen but not wanting to lose hir job like more than half the prior staff, testily holds hir tongue. Xe was always free to speak when Amalthea’s father reigned, but the new queen seems to have little need for advisors—all she does is talk, never listen. Trin casts Amalthea a sidelong look of encouragement, but it doesn’t do much.
As usual in these situations, Amalthea says nothing and mostly looks down. The new Heart Queen has only been her stepmother for a few months, and her sole guardian barely for one. In the short time they’ve known each other, Amalthea has yet to find a single maternal element to the woman. Or any reason to look further, for that matter. Sometimes she imagines they have an unspoken mutual agreement of general disagreement, as the queen seems to have absolutely no interest in a relationship, either.
Paying no notice to Amalthea’s usual discomfort, the queen twists around to examine the back of her hair in the tall mirror. Then she instructs, “Plump my bow out a bit.” Amalthea’s relieved when Trin moves to do it, looking rather disgruntled; xe’s not a maid. Unlike the full gowns of Amalthea and the queen, (the queen’s with excessive ornaments such as the rather garish crimson bow in the back) Trin is in the usual suit-like dress uniform, not an apron. The queen turns again to scrutinize Trin’s handy work, then shoves hir away and plays with the back of her dress herself, muttering, “Can’t get a decent hand around here...” Trin steps to the side and stands stiffly at attention again, awaiting the queen’s orders to proceed.
In time with this movement, the trumpets start, and the queen stops fidgeting. The calming music of the symphony below has waned, and in its place a lively roar of percussion starts to beat. The official ceremony is about to begin. In a few moments, the queen will descend the great spiral staircase to the awed eyes of their nation. And then Amalthea will follow, hopefully to the diminished attention of those still focused on her predecessor. This wish is probably the only thing her and her stepmother have even remotely in common, but she’s grateful nonetheless.
“It’s time, Your Majesty,” Trin announces, but the queen just waves a hand to silence hir, speaking instead to Amalthea: the bigger problem.
“Remember,” the queen fusses without really looking at her. “Not a step until I’m settled—this is my ball, and I won’t have you ruining it with your clumsy sense of timing. Once I’ve greeted my audience and stand before the throne, I’ll give my first speech, and afterwards things will settle down again. You’ll know when my round of applause is over and the music’s resumed normal play. Then you may join me.”
She’s gathering up all her skirts and pushing Amalthea out of the way to near the arched doorway. The three of them are still hidden by the walls, but a few steps and they’ll be out, center view several columns above the crowd, on the coiled, marble, red-carpeted stairs that mirror the other side of the hall. The two sets curve down symmetrically to the raised platform in the middle, which holds the two royal thrones and the royal portrait. Just yesterday, it still held the shining faces of Amalthea’s mother and father with an infant version of herself in their arms. ...But today it’s covered in an intricate crimson tapestry, which will later be removed to reveal a new portrait of solely the Heart Queen, adorned in her father’s crown.
“Are we clear?”
Amalthea startles out of her reverie to realize that her stepmother is finally looking at her, sporting a rather strict glare.
“Oh,” she mumbles, “yes.”
“You are not to ruin my entrance.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” ...She can’t quite bring herself to address the woman as ‘mother.’
“You will not draw attention to yourself in any way—this is my day, this is my kingdom, these are my people, and they will be solely captivated with the sight of me, understand?”
“I understand, Your Majesty.”
With a disbelieving glower that baffles Amalthea (she has not told a single direct lie in her life, not even to this woman) the queen turns up her nose and throws to Trin, “See that she doesn’t.”
To which Trin doesn’t respond; xe serves the entire royal family, whatever the queen seems to think that means.
Assuming her own reign, as usual, the queen twirls around her elaborate dress. When the short pause in the drums ends, she takes a grand step outwards, pausing dramatically at the top of the stairs. The moment she appears, the music booms, and the crowd cheers. She has her hair in an elegantly styled, yet almost impossibly voluminous up-do, and her makeup is an exaggerated storm of blush and gloss. Her dress is custom made and preordered far in advance, embedded with sparkling jewels and expertly dotted with hearts, in a stunning mix of different shades of red and different layers of expensive material. Even her heels are a dusted rosy crystal, clicking as she walks. With a satisfied grin, the queen sweeps forwards, and Amalthea shrinks further back.
Amalthea wears her own dress and her own makeup, which wasn’t at all easy. Of course her stepmother had her professionally painted up, but with the way it made her look, Amalthea could’ve sworn it was an intentionally amateur ambush. Instead, she hurriedly washed off and redid herself as lightly as she could, conveniently not mentioning the mishap to her queen. The dress she now wears is something she’s made herself: a less than perfect but perfectly adequate flowing silhouette of pale blue. Her long, white hair is drawn up on one side and held with a large-scale, thin-metal, diamond-encrusted butterfly: a gift from her father on her previous birthday. While her little ensemble is certainly nothing to rival the queen’s full attempts in her own opinion, Amalthea is still careful to wait for her cue before stepping out. (And perhaps secretly hoping it might never come.)
But she isn’t so lucky, and time passes. The queen finally reaches her destination, which is signaled by another boom of sound and another great cheer. A moment later, and a slight hush falls over the crowd; Amalthea assumes the declaration is in motion. She sucks in her breath and blocks out her stepmother’s words—she’s heard this all before and isn’t so easily excited.
She focuses instead on mental preparations for the task ahead. Unlike her stepmother, she has no love for attention. As per her promise, she’ll try her utmost to not attract too much attention. Obviously, she’ll strategically wait for just the right moment to appear, when everything else has returned to its regular state and no one is really looking. Naturally, she’ll go as mouse-like as possible: head down, arms folded, trying to make little sound and pretending she’s invisible. But she isn’t invisible. She’s a princess. According to local rumour, she’s the most beautiful princess in all the world. Her eyeliner probably took less than half her stepmother’s time to apply, yet she knows she’ll attract twice the stares, whether she likes it or not.
Not. An enormous outburst of cheering and clapping echoes throughout the hall, indicating the painting’s been revealed. Not at all sorry she missed that, Amalthea braces herself for her time. Trin quietly suggests, “It’s your turn, Princess,” but Amalthea shakes her head and wants to wait. Trin, perhaps sympathetic to her social discomfort, lets her wait.
A small while, and the excitement subsides—the band resumes its regular program. The general chatter goes down to a dull rumble. The Heart Queen will require her presence in the smaller, off-center throne, if only to make a grand show of overshadowing her. Trin’s continued sidelong glances make that clear.
She takes a deep breath and steps forward. Trin turns to leave; in Amalthea’s absence, xe’s free to work alongside the other servants. (A decidedly more pleasant fate than attending the queen.) Amalthea yearns to follow hir, but knows there isn’t any choice.
The light around the corner is nearly blinding, or maybe it’s just the dizziness of being in a room with so many people. Amalthea makes it nearly three steps out before she hears it—the first, tiny gasp in a sudden sea of hundreds.
The music is the first to go, missing a beat before slowing, then stopping, as each musician in turn shifts to notice her. Heads are swiveling and catching all throughout the hall, instantly ensnared once looking. With the usual awkward elegance of a practiced but tired model, Amalthea continues steadily downwards, looking nowhere in particular and trying profusely not to catch anyone’s eyes. ...Especially her stepmother, who greets her with an icy stare at the bottom that no one seems to notice; the breathless crowd is enthralled with Amalthea alone.
The music’s stopped; the waiters are still; the guards have pivoted to face her. The general public is an ocean of upturned faces, each tinted with a similar expression of mesmerized captivation, fascinated daydreaming, or even blossoming jealousy. The queen, of course, is a stunning beauty, especially tonight, in all of her practiced glory.
But Amalthea is the fairest of them all, and that is simply that.
She sits immediately next to her stepmother, purposely not looking over, and plays the wilted wallflower until things eventually return to normal. They do, in time. Gentle notes fill the air, drinks and h’orderves circulate, and gossip relights with new vigor.
But the queen continues to watch Amalthea, the heart on her crown a cold irony.
Chapter 1 (preview)
Amalthea would be perfectly content to stay right here in her throne all night. She has a naturally pleasant face even when bored or unhappy, and she’s quite sure that not a soul would notice her inward sorrow. It would help, of course, if she didn’t see her stepmother out the corner of her eye. It’d be worse if she had to circulate the crowd, feeling various lords’ grubby hands and ladies’ envious scowls. It would seem alluring to not be on a raised platform and the center of attention, but Amalthea isn’t naïve enough to think that getting off the stage will take any attention away. And her stepmother will make her dance with people: the worst fate she can imagine.
“Child,” the Heart Queen whispers, in a somewhat-literal, speak-of-the-devil moment. “Why don’t you get out and dance? It’ll give our guests a reason to start moving and a chance to not have any distractions whilst beholding their new queen.”
Latching onto that nonsensical vanity, Amalthea replies in another low murmur, “Perhaps if I simply left? Then it could be all you, all night...”
“Don’t be stupid.” A glare quickly flares and dissipates—they’re in public and body language is key. The queen appears to relax and does a casual flick of her hand, as though discussing the appropriately lovely weather. “These good people have lost two members of the royal family in only a few years—we mustn’t have them thinking you’re ill as well—it’ll put a damper on the whole evening. Besides, you’re the only original left—you must stay here to show your support for me. We can’t have the impression I’ve simply taken over so soon, now can we?”
With an odd blink, Amalthea supposes that’s exactly what’s happened; she’s a figurehead and this strange woman has conquered her kingdom. She doesn’t support that, but it isn’t as though she actually has any say in the matter. Before she can open her mouth to reply, the Heart Queen goes on, smiling deceptively wide.
“Just because your father was miserable at discipline doesn’t mean I won’t punish you when you misbehave.” An instantaneously menacing glint in those narrowed eyes sends a chill down Amalthea’s spine. “Now, are you going to be a good little girl and do what your queen tells you, or am I going to have to teach you a lesson tonight?”
Trying to keep a casual demeanor whilst internally shrinking, Amalthea nods slowly. “Of... of course... I’ll just... go...” She trails off. Sort of shaken up. She glances around helplessly, hoping to spot Trin in the crowd—should could us a little advice and support now more than ever, but trying to pick one person out of the masses is a fruitless cause.
At least she isn’t thrown to the wolves without a game plan. “Go dancing,” the queen finishes for her. “With Mr. Reddenmill and a few of the other local powerhouses. Might as well make some good connections for your queen while you’re at it, hm? Oh, and be a dear and greet the Prince of Spade. I spotted his procession wandering in right in the middle of my opening address. Rather rude, really, but there’s no sense ruining perfectly good relations with the neighboring kingdom.”
“Ah, yes, Your Majesty,” she mumbles. ...A tad overwhelmed. Mr. Reddenmill? If her stepmother means to match her up already that’s not a particularly good start—he may be one of the most wealthy and influential men in Heart’s capitol, but he’s also at least twice her age, not at all handsome to her, and decidedly smarmy. She isn’t at all happy about targeting any other ‘powerhouses,’ either. In her experience, those are not only the most boring and unpleasant lot, but also the most laden with ulterior motives. The Spade Prince is at least closer to her own age, but even he isn’t quite her ideal.
And what’s more, how could she have not noticed his arrival? He’s the prince of the entire kingdom of Spade for goodness sakes; he should’ve at least had his own royal welcoming. Her father would’ve had a special entrance planned and greeted him on stage immediately. Now she can’t even spot him in the pulsating crowd, although she’s sure a good search won’t take her long; he’s a prince, after all. And if she knows anything about being royalty, it means he’ll be surrounded by a tight ring of guards, and a tighter ring of admirers—the occasion swoon or squeal should be a good tip off.
With another figurative set of daggers from her stepmother and a quick intake of breath, Amalthea stands. The hall seems to collectively glance over. Her stepmother stands faster as Amalthea descends the marble steps into the wall of guards.
“Citizens of Heart, how pleased I am that you’re all enjoying yourselves. What a wonderful night this is becoming. But of course, a celebration is not a celebration without dancing, and I would be honoured if you would all join me in appreciating the beautiful musings of Heart’s greatest musicians.” One clap from the queen and everyone’s clapping, and the deafening thunder drowns out Amalthea’s steps as she slips into the crowd. Two guards instantly tail her. The band pauses to bow and resets the tone to a more danceable melody, perfect for waltzing or ball dancing. She settles for the latter as it seems more fitting, eyes searching for a tall, dark, and handsome man.
Mr. Reddenmill is anything but that, though, unfortunately, he’s the first to meet her.
“Princess Amalthea, how lovely to see you,” he starts with a bow, as he pops up in front of her. Instilled obligation automatically raises her hand as she curtsies, which he takes and kisses on her rise, lips dry against her smooth skin. His fingers are bony and long and grips hers a little too tightly. There’s a slightly longer-than-necessary pause while his eyes roam over her. Then a cough. “Ah, perhaps you will be so kind as to honour me with a dance?” And he gestures towards the dance floor dramatically, too-bushy eyebrows up and uneven teeth showing.
He’s a tad too round, his stubble is a tad too long, his suit is a tad too old-fashioned and his hair is a tad too thin. She doesn’t at all want to but knows she has to, and a quick glance at her stepmother confirms that. The guards seem to spot it too, as they don’t stop him from sweeping her out into the wide clearing. One of his hands lands on her waist to guide her—something he would’ve never done under her father’s reign, surely—and Amalthea tenses but feels helpless to bat it away. She feels frozen and awkward but trained to take it, to smile stiffly whether or not the feeling’s there. The guards stand dutifully at the edge of the crowd with their hands behind their backs, watching her with uncomfortable expressions. She’d like to think they’d like to save her, and she would like to be saved. ...But they’re under a new master now, so all they can do is watch, eyes fixed on her like magnets. Which is a little too similar to the rest of the crowd to sit fully right in Amalthea’s stomach.
At least, she tells herself, it isn’t so bad as when she first came in; she’s been out for a while now, and people have mostly had their fill. But never all. There are plenty of people still engrossed with the sight of their somewhat reclusive princess. Nevertheless, the floor throbs gently around her, various couples with tidy spaces between sweeping backwards and forth. If this were all she had to do, Amalthea wouldn’t mind, but the fact that she has to do it with this man’s wrinkled hand in hers and on her waist makes it an entirely different story.
They sway back in forth in the second-nature steps, Mr. Reddenmill stepping too close every chance and Amalthea putting distance between them when she can. “What a glorious day,” Mr. Reddenmill starts, as though they have anything to converse about. His grin is entirely too wide—he must know how lucky he is for this new opportunity. Her father would never have made her do this. In fact, he would have discouraged it. But these are different times, and she isn’t holding her breath for a rescue. “How fitting for the Heart Queen’s celebration, wouldn’t you say?” She nods. He goes on. She tunes out and forces a smile.
Eventually the song begins to wind down, drawing to a clear end. Mr. Reddenmill gives her a polite nod, whilst presumptuously repositioning them for a second dance. That almost bothers her more than his clammy hands themselves.
Then a tall figure sweeps past Amalthea and taps the balding man on his shoulder, eliciting a deep frown. Mr. Reddenmill looks around, going tight-lipped.
“Excuse me, my good man,” the intruder asks him. “Would you mind terribly if I cut in?” Of course he would. He’s dancing with the most beautiful woman in the land, who wouldn’t?
But it’s a bit difficult to say that to a prince, and with an incredibly bitter scowl, Mr. Reddenmill murmurs, “Princess.” He begrudgingly relinquishes his hold and bows to her. She endures another kiss to her hand, and then he’s bustling off into the crowd, spurned.
The Prince of Spade delicately takes her fingers and presses a chaste peck kiss to her knuckles, followed by a deep bow and a winning smile. Amalthea curtsies back and straightens.
In complete contrast, the Spade Prince is nothing short of stunningly handsome. He’s well built with broad shoulders, sturdy arms, and impeccable posture. He’s naturally cheerful—or at least, always seems to be when she sees him—and he wears a charming grin with impossibly white teeth, immaculate, full black hair with a lustrous shine, dark skin, dark eyes, adorable dimples, a firm jaw and strong chin. His royal uniform is a rich ebony with a cream sash and gold trimmings: his various medals a proud show on his chest. All and all, he is a particularly striking man, who deserves a particularly striking wife, who hopefully isn’t her.
While his occasional visits over to her kingdom have lead her to believe that he is a genuinely kind and decent person, the stable arms that carry her almost weightlessly across the dance floor have never given her the butterflies she would like. At least his arm is unpresuming around her waist; he doesn’t make her feel trapped like other men often do. They pose for the next dance, and he maintains a respectable distance. She’s happy to see him if it’s in place of a lecherous old man, but her knees don’t start shaking at the sight of him. It’s a problem she’s always suffered with, though not so much after recent developments. From a young age, it was clear that her father, and even mother, would’ve loved nothing more than for her to grow up to be smitten with the Spade Prince. He is, after all, the perfect age and from the perfect family, and a good marriage would mean the perfect alliance of two magnificent kingdoms. ...But she’s sure her new stepmother would have absolutely nothing to do with a union that might split her power, and an arranged marriage with him is certainly not a concern.
The Spade Prince remains blissfully unaware of this fact as the music starts and he expertly guides her steps. As royals, they’ve both been taught the proper dance etiquette in minute detail, and they flow together like a well-oiled clock. He asks her conversationally, “So, my dear princess, what have I been missing in the land of Heart?”
The most obvious thing. Before she can stop herself, she hollowly sighs, “Other than my father’s untimely passing, not much.”
His face falls immediately. “Oh, of course, I am so sorry. I did not mean to bring that up.”
“Of course,” she assures him. She can feel her cheeks colour slightly; she didn’t mean to make him feel guilty. Her spotless behaviour is just harder to uphold when she’s actually talking. “Neither did I. It’s all right.”
“Your father was a brilliant man and a wonderful king,” he continues sincerely. “I was proud to know him.” Again, she nods. There is a steady silence between them filled with the click of practiced feet and the flowing notes of the music. She politely volleys the conversation back to lighter things.
“And Spade? I’m afraid I haven’t been so kept up on the news of things, as of late.”
“Ah, the same,” he chuckles, with a tiny hint of relief. “Not much worthy of interest. I have been proposing a set of new hunting bylaws to my father, however. The numbers of the rare three-horned deer are dwindling. Certain regulations to preserve the local agriculture must be observed, although it is a noble, time-honored sport.”
Amalthea remains silent, as she couldn’t disagree more. The male desire to make a sport out of hurting helpless creatures is inarguably one of the things keeping her butterflies away. But it isn’t her place to scold other nations, and she’s not about to alienate her only ally only safety net at this party. Again oblivious, the prince continues.
“But enough of politics; what have I been missing with the lovely lady of the castle? It has been so long.” He sprouts a steady grin. The grin awakens something mischievous inside of her, and she’s tempted to make a joke about his interest in her stepmother, the new lady of the castle.
But she classily decides to opt for a simpler, “Yes, it has.”
His grin grows a bit wider. “You have grown so beautiful since I last saw you. Not that you were ever anything less, but you do know what I mean to say. You are a woman, now. It is breathtaking.”
“Girls tend to do that,” she can’t help but offer. “Grow into women, I mean.”
He chuckles at that. “Yes, I suppose that is true.”
And on that note, their song ends, and their feet still, although the prince’s arms don’t move. It’s then that a third man interjects, and Amalthea breathes a sigh of relief that it’s only her guard. While the prince may not be her knight in shining armor, he’s still the closest thing to an enjoyable male dance partner she imagines she’ll ever get.
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” the guard starts nervously, “but the Heart Queen is about to make her next speech. Perhaps you would like to return to your throne?”
Not particularly wanting to go but not particularly wanting to stay, Amalthea opts for the option that doesn’t involve holding anyone. She curtsies a goodbye to the prince and tells him, “Until later.” He takes it well enough, bowing back and smiling pleasantly.
Amalthea allows the guard to escort her back through the parting crowd. The Heart Queen doesn’t give her any indication if this was the right choice or not; upon re-arrival to her seat, the queen pays no notice of her and is making a show of standing and nodding, waving and false-kissing. When the crowd is silent, she begins, all eyes in the hall on her.
“My dear citizens of Heart, I am very proud to stand before you as your new queen—” And here she is forced to pause, as a massive round of applause ensues. This is also the part where Amalthea stops listening. She’s already endured the many recital ceremonies of this display, and she sees no reason not to pick a random spot on the wall and intently stare at it until her stepmother is finished.
But she isn’t quite given that opportunity; something more interesting than a wall-spot occurs.
While the vast, vast majority of the guests are fixated forward, Amalthea notices a new set of arrivals squeezing in through the back. The great doors are parted as silently as possible to allow them entrance, and the guards step aside. A familiar head of black hair, Trin, shuffles over, seemingly to stop them, though they’re much too far away for Amalthea to interpret the quick gestures they exchange or for their words to reach her. Whatever the trouble is, they pass. Leaving Trin behind, the guests push past hir and dive into the tightly packed sea of people. They’re headed swiftly but awkwardly forwards and perhaps a bit to the left. While their gowns are all nearly as lavish as the queen’s own, Amalthea doesn’t recognize even one of the three women that approach the stage, which is odd in itself. Naturally, she knows all the surrounding royalty and officials, of Heart and Spade alike. But this new lot pushes their way right to the front, finally settling just before the guards at the bottom of the stage. They settle and wait for the Heart Queen to finish. Several glares settle around them; they’ve forced their way through a good several dozen layers of people and blocked a few views. Not a one seems to notice. The first two are watching the Heart Queen intently, and the third is idly eyeing a window.
The first woman on the left is around Amalthea’s own age, perhaps a year or two older. She has light orange hair, long with a swooping set of curls, perfectly bouncing off her dress, which is a dazzling shade of pink. Her face is gentle but very done-up. Diamonds dot her corset and glitter along its hessian, gold ribbing accentuating her figure. Her necklace sports a fair-sized jewel and her earrings shimmer, but easily the most spectacular thing about her is her astonishing hat—a grand, pink thing with the perfect lace bow on the side. As the speech rolls on, the woman’s attention only wavers to eye the various men around her, sizing them up with a gaze Amalthea recognizes even from a fair distance away as predatory.
The second woman is definitely older, perhaps the first one’s mother. Her hair is a very deep red, unusually similar to the Heart Queens—it is, after all, a rare colour for hair to be naturally. The only difference is that the queen’s curls are large, crisp, and polished, while this woman’s are tiny and untamed, in a frantic, inherent mat. Her face is similarly sharp, perhaps a little more natural. Her dress is an elegant grey, high-collared and long-sleeved, skirt puffing out slightly less than the first woman’s. Her hat is in similar proportion to the other, but pointier and less ornate. Her eyes never wander from the speaker.
And the third woman is striking—something different and strange, and Amalthea finds herself stuck here the longest of all, something warm in her stomach making her unsure how she’ll ever break away.
This woman appears close to her age, too, perhaps a year or two older than the first. She could also be the second one’s daughter, although her skin is a much darker shade, reminiscent of cocoa. Her hair is thick and night-black and seems to almost shine deep blue in the light. It barely reaches her shoulders and is frayed in a complex collection of layers, flittering out at the ends in large, calming waves. Her face is harder than the first woman’s, softer than the second. Her figure is stronger than both, yet no more large or bulky, just powerful and taut. Her dress is a deep forest-green, more muted, and significantly less full on the bottom than the others. She wears no hat and no jewelry. She turns her head forward and catches eyes with Amalthea, and Amalthea’s breathing jerks to an abrupt halt.
She’s used to being watched, of course. By cautious guards, by enthused citizens, by a beast of a stepmother. But something about this is so incredibly different, and it takes Amalthea a moment to realize that it’s because, for once, she actually cares about the outcome.
She’s on the edge of her seat, wondering what this new stranger will judge of her, and she straightens imperceptibly under that strong gaze. The woman watches Amalthea like a waiting hawk, and Amalthea’s caught under an inexplicably spell for far longer than acceptable. Then, with an inappropriately large blush for a princess in public, Amalthea tells herself she’s staring and forces her eyes away. She fixates back on the other end of the hall, silently hoping her stepmother hasn’t noticed.
“...And so I invite you to enjoy the rest of this night with me, for it shall surely be a memory we all cherish for the rest of our lives.” The Heart Queen finishes to a monumental roar of applause that nearly makes Amalthea jump, wanting to cover her ears. There’re several shouted cheers and a general, unruly fervor to the response. The band starts up again with trumpets and then a new, odd arrangement, different than earlier. At the Heart Queen’s bidding, the party renews. The sea of people sifts towards the band—Amalthea assumes she’s missed something in the speech about this being a particularly special piece.
“Ah, Gretal. Good of you to come.”
The Heart Queen is back to her regular voice level, even a little hushed. The crowd won’t be hearing this and will most likely assume she’s greeting foreign royals. Amalthea assumes as much while the three women ascend the stairs, stopping before the queen’s throne with shallow bows and one curtsey from the woman in pink. Trin hurries towards them, weaving through all the bodies in hir way with a tight efficiency. But xe stops when xe sees the queen’s reaction, and instead, xe remains at the bottom of the stairs, looking fidgety but helpless. Whether or not they’re late and unusual, they’re clearly not uninvited. The second woman in the grey dress answers, “Rella, how could I not?”
The queen scowls. “Don’t call me that.” Then she smiles again, probably remembering where she is: appearances are always vital to her.
“Of course, dear sister,” the woman, apparently named Gretal, answers smoothly, with a certain crooked smile that reads she isn’t sorry at all. With this, Amalthea blinks in surprise—she had no idea her stepmother had a sister. Are these other two her step-cousins, then? Is that right? She shares a quick glance with Trin, who looks equally as surprised and, after a moment, turns to disappear off into the crowd—obviously, this is a private conversation. Amalthea feels awkward staying behind but knows better than to follow. “After all the work I put into this, I figured I should at least enjoy the party.”
That’s another surprise; Amalthea’s never seen Gretal around the castle before. Amalthea isn’t sure what work she means, but the queen clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s not go digging into that now.” The Heart Queen moves on to the next face: the orange-haired woman. “Alice, you look lovely. When can I expect my next hat?”
“On your birthday,” the woman replies. “I wish I could sit in a throne. Didn’t there used to be three?”
“Alice,” Gretal snaps.
“But, Mother—”
“I got rid of it,” The Heart Queen jumps in. “It was unnecessary. If you’re still around when the guests leave, you may sit in Amalthea’s, however.” Amalthea starts at her name, having assumed she’d be left out as per usual. She isn’t surprised that she isn’t immediately introduced. By her stepmother, at least. Gretal turns to her instead, with an odd, considerable interest in her eyes.
“Ah, so this is the Princess Amalthea?” she asks. “Lovely to meet you, dear. Would you mind showing your new cousins around? I have something to discuss with your mother.” Amalthea starts again, both at the sudden order from a stranger and the use of the terms ‘cousins’ and ‘mother.’ The Heart Queen doesn’t look any happier, but she begrudgingly nods over.
“If we must. Child, this is Alice and Belle. Do show them around so I may catch up with my sister.” Still in a minor state of shock, Amalthea nods. She gets up at the snapped, “Now.”
Awkward and stiff, Amalthea settles for a curtsey at the two women. Her staring contest with the woman who must be Belle isn’t forgotten, and a part of her is nervous over that; meeting new people always makes her anxious, but at the moment, there seems to be an extra jubilant bouquet of butterflies wrecking havoc in her stomach. Alice dips slightly and Belle nods. Amalthea feels silly and tongue-tied. To make matters worse, a poorly timed glance outwards reveals a good quarter of the room to be watching her and her advisor nowhere in sight. Isn’t everyone supposed to be glued to the musical performance? She wishes this were done in private.
“Ah... good evening,” she greets, stumbling once. She’s usually better at hiding it that this, at being proper, but Belle’s looking at her again. “I am Amalthea.”
“Alice,” the first one sniffs. “I heard there’s a prince here. Take me to him.”
“Oh.” Amalthea blinks. That was fast. But it’s a direction, and she had none. It’s an excuse to not stand here like an idiot. Belle rolls her eyes, but says nothing. Amalthea waits for a moment, but nothing else is said. Turning, she hesitates before gathering her skirts and making her way back down the steps. Alice and Belle follow her, heels clicking along the tile.
At the bottom, the guards suspiciously eye her followers but set out with her anyway. She beelines for the dance floor—the last place she left the Spade Prince. Out of the corner of her eye, she keeps track of Belle, who remains silent and inexplicable. This is all very... unexpected.
There’s probably a lot for them to talk about. Amalthea has no other cousins, but she imagines what they’d discuss—she wonders where Gretal, Alice, and Belle live, and what they do. But Belle doesn’t seem inclined to conversation, and Alice is busy staring around. When they reach the dance floor, the Spade Prince, naturally, isn’t simply waiting for Amalthea where she left him. They do a semi-circle of the surrounding onlookers before Alice brushes in front, whining, “Oh, this is taking too long! How hard can a prince be to find?” She takes the lead a few paces, musing aloud, “He’s the prince of Spade, isn’t he? Is he as gorgeous as they say?”
“Almost unbearably so,” a deep voices offers from behind them, causing Amalthea and Alice to abruptly swirl around. The Spade Prince chuckles, emerging from the crowd. His smile is a reassuring and genuine, curiosity in his eyes. “Princess Amalthea, I am glad for the chance to see you again tonight. Who are these lovely ladies you travel with?”
“Ah—” Amalthea starts.
“Alice,” Alice finishes, jumping in front of Amalthea and curtseying so ridiculously low that her hat nearly tumbles off. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”
“What a charming woman. The pleasure is all mine, my fair maiden.” And he bows extravagantly to kiss her jutting out hand.
With a deep blush, Alice omits a tiny, high-pitched squeal that Amalthea thinks only other women and certain animals might be able to hear. Belle rolls her eyes again, evidently not amused with her sister’s antics. Before the Prince has a chance to introduce himself to her, Alice has latched onto his arm and begins to steer him onto the dance floor, completely ignoring Belle and Amalthea. “Would you grace me with a song, Your Highness? I would be ever so honoured.”
“Well,” he chuckles, looking back at her with the sort of clumsy grin of a man reveling in a woman’s attention. It’s already more interest than Amalthea’s ever shown him. “How could any man refuse such a tempting offer?” He gives Amalthea the courtesy of a parting wave before he and Alice are swept up in the crowd. With the two of them go Amalthea’s distractions, and she turns back to Belle with an embarrassed sort of non-plan and a flurry of her trapped butterflies. Hopefully, Belle didn’t notice how long her staring went on earlier.
“I...” She begins, then pauses when nothing else comes to mind and all her gears lock up again. Belle’s watching her sister silently, with an interesting lack of interest. Which is both comforting a disappointing; there isn’t any pressure, but for once, Amalthea wants to talk with someone. There’s still something about Belle that Amalthea can’t put her finger on. It’s maybe or maybe not the thing that’s drawing her in so relentlessly.
She gulps and forces herself to go on: “What... what would you like me to show you? Ah, around, I mean...” In her mind, Amalthea chastises herself. She’s a princess. She has no business stuttering. Hopefully she’s not blushing as hotly as she feels. Up close, Belle’s eyes are even deeper: a dark hazel that Amalthea finds inexplicably enthralling.
Slowly, Belle looks back at her. “I’ve already seen the palace.”
Amalthea blinks. Oh. She’s never seen Belle around before, but then, if Gretal has put work into this party, it would make sense for her children to have been here. And it’s not as if Amalthea strays out and about much. But Amalthea doesn’t know what else to suggest. Belle seems to size her up in this moment, and Amalthea tries very hard not to blush harder under the scrutiny.
After a moment, Belle asks, “Would you like to dance as well?”
Now that’s shocking. Amalthea’s never been asked to dance with another woman before. Not formally. She stares at Belle in response, who stands tall and handsome with an air of strength about her that almost lets Amalthea forget the rest of the world around them. She wants to say yes, knows she does. Amalthea sucks in a breath and answers, “Yes,” too fast.
Her hands are too warm, like her cheeks. Belle sweeps a casual arm around her shoulders like this is nothing, like Amalthea isn’t staring and she’s not a princess and they aren’t related but meeting just now, so oddly and awkwardly for the very first time. Belle’s arm is firm at her back but comforting, not controlling like she’s used to, and with that easy hold, Belle brushes her onto the dance floor mid-song. Belle reaches for her hand, which Amalthea gives immediately. Belle’s hands are warm, too.
Belle begins to spin them along with the other couples, obviously leading, which is good, because Amalthea’s not used to dancing any other way. With her stepmother watching, Amalthea feels the need to at least play the stunned and proper princess, delicate and well behaved, and going along with this strangeness only to not be rude. Even so, she doesn’t dare look at her stepmother—she’s sure it won’t be pleasant. She’s definitely in for it tonight. ...But at this point there’s no avoiding it; she’s already said yes and started; and it might as well be worth it.
Already, it is.
It’s instantly obvious that Belle is a good dance partner. She’s stable and secure. Her movements are more flowing than Amalthea’s used to, her hands softer. Smaller, thinner, less... scary wrapped around her own. It’s a strange feeling to have another bustling set of skirts competing with hers, more heels clicking. But it’s also strangely exciting, and it fits. She finds herself hoping this song won’t end—she doesn’t know if she’ll get another one.
But it does, and she does. When the music fades, Belle holds on and Amalthea’s breath holds; she doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare look away. Belle glances over her shoulder; Amalthea turns to see Alice locking the poor prince in for another round. Most couples are staying, and some are switching. The beat begins again and everyone moves. They move.
Amalthea twirls under Belle’s suddenly arched arm, catches back, fingers on Belle’s curved shoulders, and she’s dipped low. Her skirt splays along the ground. Her breath catches, pulse racing from the movement, from the thrill of really dancing. She’s brought back up, adrenaline spiking in vertigo, and she’s placed on her feet, and she’s spun fluidly around again. She can’t help her smile, even if it’ll only sink her deeper into trouble—but Belle’s good at this. And... enchanting.
She smells earthy and like cinnamon, and her eyes are intent and intense. Her hands are so different than Amalthea’s used to in a dance partner, and they feel similar and right in Amalthea’s. By their third dance, Belle’s lips twitch slightly before a smile starts—the first one Amalthea’s seen on her. It’s small and shallow, but there. It makes Amalthea feel brighter. She’s starting to get dizzy, light-headed from the workout and the touch and the want for this company. ...There’s an odd sadness in Belle’s eyes, too, that comes with the smile, which Amalthea doesn’t understand. Maybe that’s been part of what she’s sensing, something deeper and complicated. But she’s already grinning herself, wide, and can’t help it, can’t fathom an issue right now, just sees a smile and knows it’s as real as her own. Each step makes her breath quicken. Mysteries and shock aside, when has dancing ever been fun for her? There’s no talk of the weather, and Belle remains quiet; perhaps they’ll speak later, but for now, it’s just this moment, this long, beautiful, stretching moment of time that’s flying by too fast. Amalthea’s heart is throbbing too loud.
It’s grown dark outside and the stars have come out, everything lit with candles, and still, they dance. With no one else. There’s a safety here they’re locked into. When she thinks about it in the context of night and stars, it’s almost romantic. She’s forgetting about the watching eyes around her, the surrounding mass fading unobtrusively into the background.
This is peaceful, and for once, she’s doesn’t feel quite so alone. Better than she could have guessed. She woke up this morning with a reeling, nervous sickness—ate breakfast in a slow drudge of dread. But that was silly, it seems. The dances go on and she feels an overwhelming sense of childish giddiness—she’s finally found someone she enjoys dancing with. She doesn’t stop smiling even when a guard anxiously interrupts, squeezing in amongst all the couples to tap her shoulder.
He opens his mouth, but Amalthea shuts him off in her politest tone. “I’d prefer to stay.” She isn’t normally so firm, and the guard recoils back in surprise. Amalthea looks at Belle, who’s paying the guard no mind and simply taking them away from him in another step. Amalthea’s spinning in the next second, skirts unfurling wide around her. When she straightens back out, the guard is gone, her hand is back in Belle’s, and Belle mumbles beneath the song, “You’re not how I pictured you.”
Amalthea doesn’t know how she was pictured and is curious, but doesn’t want to sound vain, and she doesn’t know what to say or do. The music’s too loud to carry a proper conversation, anyway, and she wants to talk to Belle alone. Sometime when she isn’t panting for breath. They retreat back to their silent understanding.
Amalthea would be perfectly content to stay right here and do nothing else all night.
Chapter 2 (preview)
Amalthea dreams of dancing all night, spinning around in a dress of changing colours to a score of changing music. There are no interruptions in that blurry, shapeless world; the guards don’t insist she return to the stage, and she bids Belle goodbye properly, instead of the way it really was: dragged back and forced to sit and trying to scan the crowd for a handsome dancing partner that never resurfaces. How dull.
When she wakes up to the light streaming in through her tall windows, Amalthea rolls over and buries her head in the pillow, groaning. She didn’t see Belle past the dance floor, didn’t see Rella or Alice, didn’t even see the Spade Prince. Just the queen in all her glory. Amalthea’s had enough of the Heart Queen to last her several weeks.
She wants to stay in bed. All day. The birds are chirping out her window, flittering by and offering their music; so much less obtrusive than the sounds of twittering people. She burrows into her plush blankets and tries to slip back to dreamland, matching up her humming to the birds’ song to set a proper stage.
But she’s a princess, and her days are never hers.
A knock sounds on her door—a light, pitter-patter that she recognizes. She calls sleepily, “Come in,” and her door cricks open to admit a stout maid with olive skin, a heavy figure, and close-cropped hair. She’s one of the very few maids still left around, though Amalthea assumes the Heart Queen will dismiss her soon enough; it’s only a matter of time.
The maid, Patti, bids her a serene, “Good morning,” and Amalthea sits up in bed and yawns and nods to return the sentiment. Patti sways past her four-poster and throws up the yellow curtains, letting in more sun. Amalthea shields her eyes and lets Patti dart about, fluffing pillows and straightening furniture that Amalthea may have knocked slightly askew during her phantom dancing last night. “Lovely ball, Princess,” Patti tells her, now dusting Amalthea’s armour with the apron on her black-and-white uniform. “You were just beautiful.” Patti lets out a wistful sigh, and Amalthea stifles her blush at the compliment.
She slips out of bed, bare feet hitting the embroider rug that protects her from the cold stone floor. She’s into her slippers before she’s off it, and she tugs her pink nightgown into place as she heads for the vanity, taking her seat and tossing back her long hair. Her eyes have little black circles under them, most likely from nervous the past few nights and how late she was up the one before. Apparently, it doesn’t lessen her looks. Patti steps in behind her and sweeps up her white hair—Amalthea passes her a brush.
“You were able to attend, I hope?” Amalthea asks as Patti sets into taming her locks.
“Got around near the end of it. Wonderful music, don’t you think, Princess?” Before Amalthea can answer, Patti bustles on, “I’ll say one thing for that new queen of ours—she might have a nasty temper on her behind the close doors of this castle, but she sure knows how to throw a party!”
Amalthea doesn’t exactly agree, but she has no wish to ruin Patti’s good mood. The mention of her stepmother actually brings Amalthea’s back down, although it’s always nice to hear her fears of the queen confirmed—most are too afraid to say anything. She’s glad the servants consider her room a safe haven.
When Patti’s done with Amalthea’s hair, she tries to move on to makeup, but Amalthea insists, “I’m fine. No one’s going to see me today.”
“I will!” Patti protests, but she can hardly defy her princess, and Amalthea stands firm. She picks out her own dress and has minimal help with it: just has Patti do up the back. It’s a much less flashy set of skirts today, but surely the queen won’t be displaying her twice in a row. Then Patti disappears, and Amalthea leans back on the lounge beneath the window, quite content to stay in her room.
And daydream. She takes a book from her shelf—an old fantasy tale of a sphinx who fell for a mortal—for no particular reason and leaves it open in her lap. She’s read all her books half a dozen times, but she knows better than to ask her stepmother if she can get more. There was a time when she would’ve just ridden down to the village, with guards and perhaps her father or Trin, and sought the volumes herself. But those times are over, and for now, she contents herself with memories.
Two little pidovegeons take to sitting on a branch outside her window, and through the ripe green leaves they chirp to one another. Amalthea sings a wordless song to join them, head twisting back to the night before, one she’d been so sure would leave her only with nightmares.
A member of the kitchen staff appears shortly and serves her breakfast on a tray. She picks through it and decides to return the dishes herself; recent events have left her feeling more... stable than usual.
The halls of the castle are all busy, but the worst of the commotion is in the grand entrance hall, where cleaning is a full-time job. When Amalthea’s done with the kitchen, she decides to take up on the staircase to supervise, as she’s constantly bombarded with questions anyway; apparently, cleaning up after her parties is no concern of the queen’s. Amalthea brings a book to occupy her: a modern adaptation of a pushy frog and a striking heroine. She sits near the bottom steps and immerses herself in her story when she isn’t answering questions, comforted by the fact that she knows everyone in this room and they know her well enough to leave her be when they don’t need her. They still talk of her; chatter on last night’s proceedings seems to be endless, but they’re hushed and respectful when closer to her, and she doesn’t strain to hear the far-off gossip. She knows a few of her maids already want her to marry the prince, but she has no clue if any now would prefer her with Belle.
That thought makes her flush and shove her head deeper into her book to hide it. Belle’s her cousin, she reminds herself, but they don’t all know that.
After a little while, when Amalthea’s one quarter of the way through her story, Trin comes down the steps and says, “Lunch is about to be served in the dining room, Princess.”
“Oh,” Amalthea starts, still have gone in her other land. “...I’m not particularly hungry.”
Trin gives her an understanding and sympathetic look but nonetheless has to ask, “What shall I tell the queen?”
That she’s fortunate enough to escape Amalthea’s company, perhaps. Meals are some of the only times they ever see each other, and most are eaten in a solemn silence, broken only by the occasional nitpick of Amalthea’s apparently less-than-pristine etiquette. (Although her true parents never voiced any complaint.) Out of respect to Trin, who isn’t at liberty to mock hir employer, Amalthea repeats a hesitant, “I’m not hungry?”
Trin takes a moment to consider, then nods and says, “Very well. After lunch, I have a few piles of paperwork to go through with Her Majesty, but I can send someone else to supervise the cleaning. I apologize for not doing so earlier.”
Amalthea shakes her head. “That’s alright. They mostly know what they’re doing, anyway.”
And perhaps a small part of her is choosing to be here in an attempt to hide from the queen, who isn’t likely to go anywhere near manual labour. Trin dips into a small bow and tells her, “I’m afraid I’ll have to fetch for dinner. Until then, Princess.”
“Thank you,” Amalthea calls while Trin’s already returning up the steps. Hir stoic figure disappears around the corner Amalthea emerged from last night, and Amalthea turns back to her book just as Emilio comes to ask if she’d like the usual benches returned to face the stage. Amalthea supposes she’d like it all to return to normal, though, of course, the queen could reset it any time, simply to keep them all working.
Amalthea’s three quarters of the way through her book by the time Trin returns to tell her, “I’m sorry, Princess, but you’ve been summoned.”
Even with Amalthea’s trim frame, it’s been too long, and she’s hungry. She’s not willing to lie to her advisor, and, she supposes, there’s no point with another excuse; Trin has that grave look that can’t be argued with. Preemptively, xe adds, “The queen specially requested your presence.”
So Amalthea sighs and closes her book, leaving it on the staircase. Someone’s bound to return it to her rooms, and if not, she can pick it up tomorrow. She follows Trin’s receding back up the stairs and wishes she had a better place to hide.
Chapter 3 (preview)
Amalthea approaches the dining room with caution, sits in the seat Trin pulls back for her in silence, and bites back the urge to beg Trin to stay. Instead, she’s left in the room alone with the Heart Queen and one footman behind her, ready to ferry the message when this course is done. Amalthea brushes all her hair over her shoulder and sits straight up in her seat, waiting. She’s careful to be proper and still.
But the Heart Queen is a grumpily awoken bear.
At first, she ignores Amalthea’s presence, but then she bellows, “What is taking so long?” when dinner has taken more than two minutes to be served. Spouting hushed apologies, the footman hurries off to check on things, though his efforts are ignored. “So hard to find good help.” She doesn’t quite look at Amalthea and flicks her red hair. It’s in a half sort of up-do now: a semi-remnant of last evening’s style. Her makeup is back to its usual far-too-harsh self, and her face is once again jagged and irritable. Her dress is still an over-the-top glitter-fest, but it looks out of place matched with her sullen expression. A moment later, the servers come scurrying out, bowing low and sprouting apologies. The Heart Queen brushes them away with a few nasty looks and threats of more firing.
Personally, Amalthea really can’t fathom why the staff all stayed. As long as they could, anyway. Perhaps loyalty to the old family, but then, Amalthea is the only one left, and she isn’t a particularly large part of anything, now. If she were a servant, she would surely have left after a week with her new boss, whether it were a royal one or not. Perhaps she could be a tailor, instead, or a cobbler. Or an entertainer, yes—she does so love to sing. It wouldn’t be as much money, of course, but the working conditions would likely be far better. Even a general clerk would be better than a slave to the Heart Queen—ooh, perhaps she could man the counter at a small bakery. Idly her mind wanders, goofily imagining herself as someone else.
But the Heart Queen bursts into that happy thought, just as she usually does. “You disgraced me last night.”
“Hm?” Amalthea looks up instantly, startled. Her own eyes are wide and a tad petrified; her stepmother’s are narrowed and serious.
“Dancing with that girl all night like a common hussy,” the queen continues, failing to mention that that girl, that woman, is family. “Who do you think you are, a plain bar wench? You’re a princess and you have duties. Didn’t I tell you to dance with Mr. Reddenmill?”
“B-but I did—” She’s cut off.
“Hah, once. That is nothing. If you were going to be such a shameless flirt you should’ve stayed with him all night, or at least courted some of the other powerhouses. Did you even speak to Mr. Oceawell? He owns half the entire Heart food market—that could have been a serious business opportunity. And did I say to dance with the Spade Prince? Because I believe I told you to simply greet him. I watch you, child. Don’t think you can run around doing whatever you please.”
As if slapped, a rock falls into Amalthea’s stomach. She knew her stepmother would not be happy with her actions last night, but she hadn’t thought it would be over quite so many things. She did dance with Mr. Reddenmill, and the queen never mentioned Mr. Oceawell specifically. She was supposed to start business opportunities? How? She doesn’t know anything of business. And why can’t she dance with the Spade Prince? She was simply being polite. But the list then goes on, and Amalthea realizes the real core problem.
In a quieter, hissed whisper, the Heart Queen fiercely finishes, “And what did I tell you about drawing attention? They’re still talking about you, you know.” Her face twists up, her voice beginning to drip in a mockingly high pitch. “All of my citizens, going on about how lovely they’re princess is, how gracefully she dances, how fair her true beauty is.” The glare that follows is nothing short of terrifying. Amalthea sinks back in her chair, averting her eyes to her food so she won’t have to meet that fiery gaze.
But the elaborate garden salad and gold-leaf-wrapped truffle look completely unappetizing at the moment, although the whole, plain, red apple on the side does cause her a moment of confusion. It’s not exactly up to their chef’s usual standards to provide a simple apple, and a glance at her stepmother’s plate doesn’t show another one.
“Well?” the Queen goes on, causing Amalthea’s shoulder to go up.
“I... I’m so sorry, Your Majesty...”
A loud huff. “Sorry? You’re sorry? You completely ruin my inaugural ball and you’re sorry?” Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. While Amalthea herself doesn’t make a point of keeping up with the daily gossip, she’s sure she’s heard plenty of servants expressing good thoughts on the evening. Trin reported it to be a great success. But of course, that isn’t enough for the Heart Queen.
“Well?” she snaps again. Amalthea has no idea what to do until she’s told. “Don’t just sit there like the worthless lump you are. The least you can do is eat and fatten up.” Not at all about to argue now, Amalthea quickly picks up her fork and moves for her salad. “No, not that! Salad won’t do anything. The apple, the apple!”
Startled, Amalthea drops her fork. She honestly can’t see why an apple would cause her to gain any more weight than a salad, but again, she isn’t about to argue. Honestly, she could eat nothing but truffles and cake all day long and not gain a pound, but if this eases her stepmother’s mind, she’s more than willing. Unsure of quite which utensils to use and not about to waste time deciding, Amalthea awkwardly settles for picking the fruit up with her hands. Not really a publicly acceptable thing for a princess to do, but this isn’t the time for over analysis. Watching the other side of the table timidly, she raises it to her lips and takes a small bite. Chews. Swallows. The Queen watches her like a ravenous tiger. It’s all incredibly unpleasant and uncomfortable, but she takes another bite and intends to keep going until that stern look migrates elsewhere.
But, to her great surprise, Amalthea’s own gaze is actually the first to wander. On the third bite she begins to feel a dull, low throb in her forehead. She raises a delicate hand to her temple and flinches when her stepmother yells, “Eat!” So she does.
Another bite and she’s definitely feeling weaker. She glances vaguely about the room for help, but the footman hasn’t returned. Where’s Trin? Not here, but xe would help; feel her forehead and let her know if she’s sick. Excuse her to go. Her rationed strength seems to flow to her fingers, making her rotate the apple and continue to eat right through her spell of dizziness, compelled by the queen’s urgings. Her mouth is working but her head is slipping—she foggily knows she’s uncharacteristically slouching. Certainly not princess behavior. Should she stop? No, she... can’t. She’s still under scrutiny; her body won’t let her. Another bite and she’s falling, perhaps to the floor. She starts to lose track of what she’s doing, arm’s reaching up to grasp onto the—table edge? No, it’s darker than that. Crumblier. There’re bits of grass flicking out at the top. Has her table always been like that? She’s trying to climb back up—perhaps she isn’t being watched now—she must’ve eaten the whole silly thing by now, surely? But she can’t seem to get a grip on the should-be-wood. But it isn’t really wood, anymore...
Partially startled and partially too dizzy to notice, her eyes loll up. She’s always had particularly tall windows in her dining room, but was her ceiling always the sky? It’s bluer than she remembers—isn’t it dinnertime, shouldn’t it be darker? She lets go in astonishment when she realizes she’s desperately grasping onto dirt.
Her lips part to echo a shrill scream that her ears don’t hear, her arms flailing out. She’s rapidly passing twigs climbing out of the earth. And a glance up reveals the perfectly circular sky—she’s in—some sort of hole in the ground? Or something of that sort. Oh no, will there be worms? She’s passing floating miscellany of her dining room, a few chairs and some plates and her truffle—she should have eaten that first. It was probably much more delicious than some silly old apple.
But she passes it too quick to grab it, like most things. Like her grandfather clock—but that shouldn’t be in the dining room. Or her bed, but there it goes. The sheets are floating and the pillows look so comfy—if only she could land there—but no, it passes. Her hair’s flying up in her face and it makes it hard to see, her clothes whipping up around her. Why doesn’t she own any shorter skirts? Ah yes, she’s a princess. She’s falling for what feels an absurdly long time, the bizarre and inexplicable light source changing the colours of her dress as she passes. It’s all rather insane and terrifying all at once, and she screams another soundless plea as she finally spots the nearing floor, what seems an eternity later. Why did she ever look down? It rushes up to meet her in a bright, checkerboard fashion. She covers her face with her arms and braces for impact.
And blacks out instead.
Chapter 4 (preview)
A soft, faint kiss. That’s the only thing Amalthea can feel amongst the nebulous haze in her head. It’s as if she’s still sleeping, stuck, unconscious—but oddly aware, unable to control her limbs. She can’t seem to summon the strength to open her eyes or the will to wriggle her toes. Without trying, she can feel the very faint scent of cinnamon. Her back and her arms and her fingers are cold, the body above her spreading warmth to her cheeks. A soft puff of breath ghosts over her chin as their lips part, and she wants to arch up to reconnect them. But she... can’t.
Her arms are still stiff and the feeling comes slowly. In that lingering time the other person must hesitate; moments pass before feet clack against the floor. They walk, and then something creaks. A door? Footsteps follow through; the door closes? And the footsteps, now muffled, die off. Amalthea assumes she’s alone again, which isn’t at all comforting. And it sort of makes her want to fall back asleep. She’d been pleasantly dreaming of voiceless mermaids and sea foam, an inventive mix that was all and all a lot less frightening than the mystery of her current predicament.
Where is she, exactly? The last thing she remembers is an out-of-place red apple—she’d been eating... in her dining room? Yes, that’s it—her stepmother was angry with her. But she’s sure she’s in bed now, and there is no bed in her dining room. Perhaps her stepmother has redecorated again? But that’s ridiculous; a bed in a dining room isn’t the queen’s style. Perhaps she fainted under the pressure, and Trin or a guard or a kind, strong maid carried her back to her room and tucked her in. And then gave her a light kiss while promising to protect her, and that broke the spell of sleep. And that maid has now gone to get her tea and nurse her back to health. Hm, that would be nice.
But the sudden feeling in her eyelids pulls her out of this fantasy.
They’re difficult to open, almost as though they’ve been glued. But she manages slowly. She has to adjust to the strange change in luminosity. She’s in a very dark room with a very wide window, and that pale glow of the stars is her only source of light. It doesn’t do much to reveal her surroundings, especially as she can barely move her neck. She seems to be in a large, dark, canopy bed, much simpler and older than her own. The walls she can see are made of wood, not stone. Dimmer, older wood, uneven in certain places. Is she still in the palace? She can’t be. There are no wooden rooms, as far as she knows. ...And whose bed is this?
Groggily, Amalthea manages to hike her arms up, finally gaining some height with her elbows. Her torso is stiffly returning to normal. Her legs are tingling: getting there. Her head feels as though it’s full of water—she’s never eating an apple again.
After a few moments of flexing and testing, she manages to get her feet over the side. She’s wearing the same shoes she remembers putting on in the morning—silver heels—is this the same day? How long was she under? She feels so much stiffer than after an afternoon nap, and when her hands rise to her head, she finds her hair a messy tangle. Absent-mindedly, she finger-combs it as she crosses the floor, already missing Patti. She hopes Trin’s come with her and can solve all this mess. She stops at the door. Trin isn’t with her now, and she’s not sure she wants to stray away alone. She has no idea what’s out there.
The room, as she can see from here, isn’t going to give her any answers. It’s simple, and poorly lit, and impersonal, and old looking. Is she in an abandoned house, or a haunted one, perhaps? For the first time in a very, very long time, Amalthea actually wishes she had her guards. She never quite appreciated the safety they’d offered before. Surely if they were here, they would have her remain on the bed and rest, while they discovered the contents of this strange abode, and then Trin would report it back to her and determine the best course of action. A lot less scary a prospect. But then, she rethinks, what would be the fun in that? She’d still not want them there, then. She’d still feel trapped. And they aren’t here, anyway. And someone has to figure something out. Resolutely convincing herself it’s the right thing to do, she turns the handle and pushes the door open, all in one movement, like ripping off adhesive tape.
The hall is large, poorly lit, impersonal, old looking, and empty. It gives absolutely no clues as to where she is, and there are no lights. Trin would never let her stay in a place like this; xe couldn’t possibly be around. There’s a window a little ways down that shows another view of the dark sky, and the ceiling is even higher than the palace, though still made of wood. There are doors along the sides and an odd side-table with an odd looking plant. Curious and nervous all at once, Amalthea approaches the window. (Still brushing her hair with her hands.)
Nothing. The only thing below is a nondescript forest, a completely unhelpful non-landmark. Sighing, she backs away from the light, back into the shadows. The silence is starting to awaken a buzzing, moving thing inside of her. It’s mostly fright and now a little bit of paranoia, a little bit of worry. She’ll just have to keep going until something finds her. From the looks of it, it’s just an old house by a forest, anyway—not exactly the scariest place, not like a cave or a dungeon. (Although, not exactly the least scary.) Perhaps an old woman lives alone here. That makes the most sense. Convincing herself of that makes it easier to go forward. She does.
But because everything’s been so quiet up to this point, she nearly jumps out of her skin when a small, high-pitched sound breaks into the air. She spins around and screams shortly. She almost trips over her own heels. Her hands fly up, ready. Face flinches. Oh no, oh no, oh no, it’s...
Not a monster. Or an old lady. It’s a fuzzy ball of black and white with bright eyes and whiskers. Amalthea breathes a sigh of relief and sweeps down all at once. The cat sits perfectly still as she scoops it into her arms, petting it with a relieved sigh and perhaps a thin grin. In a way, animals are so much better than people, or at least, they feel that way to Amalthea. A cat couldn’t have kidnapped her and dragged her here.
She tells it softly, “Oh, cat, you scared me.”
But it’s wonderfully reassuring. A monster can’t have a pet cat, can it? The cat looks fine, looks healthy. It lets her pet it and ruffle its ears. It mewls when she touches its nose to hers. It looks happy. Having something to hold makes her feel preoccupied: distracts her: and that gives her less brain space to worry with. But it’s sort of a heavy thing, and she’s still feeling weak. She puts it back down with mild reluctance.
“You’ll follow me, won’t you, cat? Keep me company?” So much better than a standard, solemn guard. Perhaps she can ask her stepmother to replace them when she gets back? She’d get in trouble just for asking, of course, but the reaction might be worth the laugh.
She lets the cat pick the direction, now—she has no idea where she’s going, anyway, and she doesn’t want to lose track of the only other sign of life in a very dead-looking home. The cat turns around her, tail brushing against her leg, and sets off the other way, back across the window and the door she left open. The hall ends on the side in a small set of stairs. She has to hold onto the railing; the light is running out. Fortunately, the cat’s white patches stand out against the dark wood, and every so often it stops to meow at her. She follows it across another hallway and out into a larger hall, with a wide set of stairs in the middle and a door on the other end. All dark, and wooden, and eerie. The cat looks both ways before choosing the staircase—what a curious thing. “And what a kind cat you are,” she tells it, when it waits for her to follow.
The top of the stairs offers another split space with a door on either side. The cat starts left and she follows it, nearing the door and ready to open it. It’s a smart cat, she’s sure, but probably not enough to open a door. Beside, it has no opposable thumbs, and it’s not nearly tall enough. So she reaches for the handle right before it swings open.
Amalthea lets out a much larger shriek than before, absolutely horrified.
The door flies open to a being backlit in starlight, a dark silhouette much taller than her. With antlers and the ears of an animal. And fur on its cheeks and deep slits for eyes. Instantly she turns to run. Screams. The thing grabs her arm. She tries to twist in the grip and pull away but gets pulled back. It’s stronger. She screams, “HELP!” as loud as she can. No one comes, and she feels irrationally betrayed by that cat, who sits there perfectly normally while she’s maneuvered around, petrified and shaking.
“It’s okay,” the monster says, which is all fine and dandy for a monster to say, as it’s not the one about to be eaten. “...And there’s no use shouting, they’re all the way down in the kitchen and won’t hear you.”
Amalthea gulps, squeezing her eyes shut and looking away. In the kitchen. There are other monsters in the kitchen and they’re going to eat her. Feeling absolutely desperate, she throws a look over her shoulder at the cat. “Go, cat, go get help!”
The cat looks at her blankly before rolling leisurely onto its back.
Amalthea looks tentatively back at the monster, who has its eyebrow up. She adopts a put-on, sheepish grin. Maybe if she looks cute enough it won’t eat her. People are always saying she’s cute. Its firm hands slide down to her wrists, and she realizes with a little startle it has hands—not claws. A tad furry, nails a tad long, but still, hands. Actually, it has feet, not paws. It has a slim, womanly figure, built and muscled but fluid and soft. Its face is a little sad, and its hair is black and waved. “Can I let you go now, or are you going to run off?”
With an audible gasp, Amalthea realizes that she recognizes that voice, that hair, these hands. The eyes are different, there’re traces of fur where there weren’t before, different ears and towering horns. But... “Belle?” she squeaks, disbelieving.
The woman’s hands drop completely, letting her go. The same unhappiness lingers in her uninterested brow as it did at the ball, and she nods. “Yes.”
Amalthea’s frozen. “You... you look...”
“Like a beast, I know.”
Amalthea can’t believe it. Honestly, can’t believe it. She backs up, now, arms up at her chest defensively—but she isn’t going to run. “But... how? Ah... you were different...”
“Magic,” Belle says bluntly. “Makeup and magic; smoke and mirrors. This is the way I am. ...And I can’t attend a royal ball this way.”
No... no, of course not. But... this can’t be her natural state, can it? It isn’t... well, natural. Amalthea finds her fingers rising hesitantly, and Belle steps forwards to let Amalthea caress the sides of her face—it’s real. She rises onto her toes, wants to, hesitates, almost afraid to touch the antlers. But they feel like bone beneath her skin, hard and solid and definitely real.
Amalthea falls back to her feet with a loss for words, unsure of what to say. Belle speaks first.
“It’s alright if you’re afraid of me, now. I understand. But it’s in your best interest to follow me—Gretal will explain why you’re here.” And she walks straight past Amalthea and starts down the steps. With a glance at the upturned cat (who rights itself at once and follows Belle) Amalthea follows, too. The sudden realization that this woman must’ve kidnapped her hits her, but she bites her tongue in favor of a full explanation. Perhaps it isn’t that simple, and surely Belle isn’t going to eat her. Or did Gretal kidnap her? She was being silly. She is a princess, after all—perhaps this is a ransom situation. But then, aren’t these her step-cousins and her step-aunt? They’re all family, sort of, right? Right...
This house is quickly turning out to be as big as the palace, if not nearly as well lit and beautiful, and hopefully her step-aunt doesn’t run it like her stepmother. At least this house has a cat, and not guards, she reminds herself. So it can’t be all that worse. (Although there is no crown molding or glistening pillars, or, more importantly, Trin and other friendly faces.)
She has so many questions to ask, but Belle doesn’t seem interested, so she doesn’t ask. Belle takes them down, down, across more halls and through more doors. In the parts where it’s too black to see, Amalthea links their arms, a dangerous but instinctive decision. Of course Belle is somewhat scarier, now, certainly not as gentle and glamorous as before. No more elaborate dresses—just plain jeans and a button-up shirt. This family must not be royalty, she’s sure—she never gets to wear jeans. And no hats this time, obviously, not with those antlers, those ears... but perhaps that was why she was the only one out of the three to not have one before—were the bones still there, just under disguise? Amalthea has so many more questions the more she thinks about things, which is very hard not to do. She shies away in the places where it’s light again, embarrassed by her behavior. The cat follows them diligently, and there are even questions about that; who’s cat is it? Does it have a name?
But when they finally near a true light source behind a closed door at the end of the hall, the most important questions come to mind. Behind that door must wait Gretal and Alice—are they monsters too, and why is she here? If there’s magic involved, are they witches and beasts, and what is Amalthea here for? Her legs turn stiff before the clearly-kitchen door, and Belle has to drag her forward. Maybe she will be eaten, after all.
Chapter 5 (preview)
...But Gretal and Alice look normal: no horns, or fur, or slit-like pupils.
When Belle closes the door behind her, Amalthea jumps in her skin. But she takes a seat where she’s told.
Apparently, they’ve just had dinner. There’s a large kettle on the stove, and dishes in the sink, and a few scattered on the table. Alice is sitting at it, carving a small piece of pink cake off a plate in the center. Alice doesn’t move to acknowledge Amalthea. Gretal’s standing at the stove, an apron around her waist and a ladle in her hand. Belle takes a seat across from Amalthea, on the odd wooden bench that’s oddly attached to the table.
The kitchen is all odd and angled—the metals are all black and out-of-place-looking. Strange assortments of bristles and exaggerated cutlery line the walls—jars of unrecognizable ingredients line the shelves. Everything looks distinctly ancient, and the off-lighting comes from candles, held in the wall in uneven places. Gretal seems to fit in perfectly—even more casual than Belle, her dark red hair is a frenzied mess, her dress is old, ratty, and frumpy, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. Alice is done up lovely, but despite being more what Amalthea’s used to, she sticks out rather garishly.
Grabbing a clay jar from the counter, Gretal holds it out towards Amalthea. Startled, Amalthea pauses before taking off the lid. It’s filled with candy, individually-wrapped and brightly coloured. Her confused blink isn’t met with an explanation. She takes a bright red one out. Although she isn’t the most trusting of food from other people at the moment, she’s not about to offend her captors. It’s placed on the table quietly.
Amalthea is a frightened mouse in the open.
But Gretal doesn’t seem to notice. “So, you’re here.”
“Haha,” Alice adds.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why.” And Gretal looks at her expectantly.
Not sure whether she’s supposed to answer or eat her candy, she mumbles, “Yes.”
“Yes, of course you are. Well, it’s sort of complicated, really—well, no it’s not, it’s rather simple, actually—but I’m sure to you it’ll be a bit to digest.”
Amalthea nods politely. The wooden bench is harder than she’s used to beneath her, and it seems to creak under her weight when she shifts uncomfortably. Gretal’s appearance and gravelly voice, combined with the gloomy setting, are daunting.
“You see, my dear sister...” Gretal trails off, looking at her hands. Her nails are pointed and long. And curled. “Children aren’t really her strong point.”
No, really? Despite not being able to agree more, Amalthea doesn’t interject.
“...Especially when they might outshine her. But when she asked me to kill you, I did think she was being a tad over dramatic.”
Amalthea’s mouth falls open, posture going rigid by contrast. Her stepmother was going to have her killed? That’s... a big blow. But... not unbelievably when she thinks on it, which is a chilling fact in itself. She knew the new Heart Queen wasn’t exactly fond of her, but death is... harsh. She would never have assumed that on her own. (Well, maybe not never, but still...)
Gretal sweeps over Amalthea’s expression of disbelief and rolls her eyes. “Of course, who am I to deny The Most Amazing Queen of Heart?” Sarcasm and mockery drips from her voice; evidently, the sisters aren’t so dear to one another after all. But Gretal flicks her hand aside and sighs, “So I did provide her with an apple, laden with a little poison via my magnificent magic—which I’m much better at than my talent-less sister, of course, or she wouldn’t be running to me with every little problem.” She smirks here, clearly proud of herself. Amalthea doesn’t really consider her murder a ‘little problem’ but doesn’t want to interrupt. “Obviously, that poison wasn’t lethal.
“You see, I’m not like my sister,” she makes a point of emphasizing. “I’m not some thoughtless, selfish tyrant—I do have a heart, you know. However deep down it might seem. And besides, I’m an opportunist. I say: why throw away a perfectly good pair of hands when there’s so much dust in the world?”
Not expecting that, Amalthea’s automatic thank you dies in her throat. She’s here... for dust?
“As I’m sure you’ve discovered, my home is rather large. It may not be a palace from the outside, but I’ve packed in enough rooms to rival my dear sister’s abode. And of course, one can only bewitch so many brooms, and brooms are a rather dull housemaid. They miss so many corners, you see.
“Now, I could also use a hand with cooking. Stomachs do need feeding. There will be no touching my sweets. But you can make meals. Oh, and weed outside, and water. My garden tends to get a little out of hand. Some of my ‘plants’ seem to have minds of their own.”
Amalthea’s face falls slowly. She’s grateful not to be killed or eaten, naturally. But cook, clean, and garden? She’s a princess. She doesn’t have the first idea how to go about common chores, nor really the desire. Her previous flighty daydreams may have attempted a commoner outlook, but they were certainly more glamorous than a housemaid. And at least they were her choice. Gradually, the fear in her stomach gives way to dread. Suddenly being eaten doesn’t sound so bad.
“And don’t touch my hats,” Alice chirps in sharply, making Amalthea jump. She’d almost forgotten there were others here to witness her misery, so caught in Gretal’s horrible explanation as she was. Belle’s still looking straight-faced, not revealing anything. So much for that line of help. Alice is finished her cake.
At the mention of hats, Gretal straightens, looking prouder still. “Oh, Alice makes the best hats in the land.”
“Too bad she’s mad,” Belle mutters. Gretal glares at her.
Ignoring them, Alice rolls on. “Oh, and I like my tea at a quarter past twelve, half past four, and seven o’clock. I expect them in my flower mugs—I’ll show you where they are later. Oh, and I’ll expect you to serve my guests, as well. I host rather splendid tea parties.”
“You don’t have to serve her stuffed animals,” Belle overrides. Alice pouts.
“Mother!”
“Belle,” Gretal snaps. “If Alice wants her guests served, Alice will have her guests served.” Gretal glares at Amalthea. “You will serve at Alice’s tea parties.”
“And you can’t join them—you don’t have a hat.” Alice looks at Amalthea then, like this statement is one of the most important things she’ll ever hear and she absolutely has to grasp it. Amalthea wouldn’t have presumed to sit down anyway, had no real desire to, and is happy to nod. She’s starting to wish the apple’s poison were lethal. Her head is spinning.
With the silence that follows Gretal and Alice’s set demands, Amalthea turns to Belle. What will she do for Belle? Change sheets? Polish windows? Trim fur? A million possibilities run through her downtrodden mind, the images mostly exaggerated and all unpleasant. But Belle says nothing, and it makes Amalthea regret her snappish fur remark, even if it was only in her head.
“You won’t need to bother with Belle,” Gretal provides, answering her train of thought. “I assure you Alice and I will keep you busy.”
“And I will need my socks sorted,” Alice adds.
Somewhere in another room, a grandfather clock chimes, not unlike her own. It breaks through the sunken air like a whip. It makes her heart pine for home, her shoulders heavy. This is all so overwhelming. She feels foolish for ever begrudging her palace. Sure, it was too large, but she didn’t have to clean it. Sure, there were too many guards, but she didn’t have to feed them. Whenever she did spot something that needed doing, she’d just tell Trin, and xe would find the appropriate servant to solve it for her. (Amalthea’s heart constricts at the mere thought of xir; Gretal didn’t say anything about letting her go—she can’t just never see Trin again; she’s known xir since she was a child.) How exactly does one ‘weed a garden?’ It doesn’t sound fun, and she’s sure it isn’t. (And the gardens surely won’t be as beautiful and ornate as those at the palace, or she would’ve seen them out the window.) She imagines it would be far more fun as a paid job or a hobby, not so much as a slave to poison-wielding captors. When she does go outside, how far can she go? Is she allowed to go out alone? (Could she run for it?)
Belle collects the stray plates from the table—the leftover cake and Alice’s discarded cutlery. She loads them into the sink as Gretal brings back the candy jar. This is all very, very overwhelming. Amalthea has the faint urge to throw up, and she doesn’t want to eat her candy.
Gretal says, “But it’s late, and we can further this tomorrow. Explain everything and show you around. Did I clarify my home’s quarters?” Amalthea braces for more information. (Though certain she won’t retain it at this point.) “It’s very simple, divided into quarters, actually. I hold the South Wing, Alice the East, Belle the West. The North is off-limits. It’s also mine, for my magic, my work, and you’re never to go there. If you do I’ll feed you to my plants. Understand?” Amalthea nods instantly. Wouldn’t dream of it. “Anyway, I need my beauty sleep. Anyone for more sweets? Here, take that candy cane from the bottom.”
Amalthea does. She puts it beside the red one from earlier.
As they all start to filter towards the door, Amalthea realizes she has nowhere to go. She left her bed back home. Will they give her one here? With dread, she wonders if she’s meant to sleep on the floor, or something terrible of that nature. Is that what servants do? Hers certainly don’t, but this is a crazy, candy-eating, apple-bearing, step-aunt-witch she’s dealing with. Who knows.
And how does she address the woman, anyway?
Turning pink from the effort of guessing, Amalthea follows the eldest woman to the door and tugs on the back of her sleeve. Belle stops in front of her; Alice keeps walking.
“Oh, yes!” Gretal looks over her shoulder and continues to maybe-read-her-mind again. “Guests don’t get quarters. You’ll be staying with Belle, as she was the one that first thought it such a good idea to keep you alive. I need my uninterrupted beauty rest, and Alice can’t be disturbed.” Pausing and adding, almost as an after thought, “You should have more candy, you’re skin and bones,” Gretal pokes her in the stomach and then walks off into the hall.
Amalthea holds her stomach like she’s been gravely wounded, and she turns anxiously to Belle. Belle nods and heads off after Gretal. Amalthea follows: a frantic shrike with her wings clipped.