The Once Princess, Part 2

Part 1

He stood up and began to pace back and forth from the chair to the hearth, the firelight and shadows making his face look more gaunt than before. 

“I have received news, grave news, that has upended everything. Even now, I can hardly fathom what it means. For me, for our family, for the kingdom . . .” 

His voice faltered into silence, and I prompted, “News, Papa? Is it the Eidermans at the border? A rebel enclave?” I thought about the old stories I’d heard about the bloodthirsty traitors who had once plotted to overthrow my father and place their leader on the throne. I’d often imagined how I might respond when queen if such insurrection were to arise again.

“It—it is not recent news. It is something that happened long ago, but I was not aware of it.” Papa sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again and again, then he stopped pacing and faced me.

“Let me tell you a story, Pepper.” That was his pet name for me. “Fifteen years ago—that was when the Shrike was still in hiding.” I shivered at the rebel leader’s name. The plans he’d had for the kingdom, and especially my family, were common knowledge. Gruesome knowledge. “He was stronger than ever and had won over many to his side, even here in the palace. Not only servants but a few court officials as well.”

“The almoner, Baldric,” I whispered.

He flinched as if at a stab, and I felt guilty for mentioning the man who had been his friend. “Yes, he was one. When he was unmasked as a traitor, we also arrested several others whom we had trusted completely, including the nursemaid we had chosen to care for our first child. She was highly recommended by Trista’s own sister, so we had perfect faith in her. 

“How could we know the Shrike had poisoned her mind just a few months before she came to us? He must have known she would be entrusted with the care of a royal child, and he targeted her with his terrible lies.”

I shivered and tried to imagine being held as a baby by that fiendish traitor. She probably had fangs hidden behind a sweet red smile.

“We discovered the nursemaid’s treachery when the Shrike was captured, and they were both imprisoned. She sickened soon after and died. He was tried and executed in short order. Until a few days ago, I thought that was the end of the matter—whatever he had been planning, we had stopped it. There was never any widespread violence, the rebels never stormed the castle. We thought the danger was past. But now . . .” He buried his face in his hands and I thought he might have sobbed—but that was impossible for my strong, brave father. Nothing but the greatest misery could drive him to tears.

He resumed his pacing and picked up the threads of the story. “Before we captured him, the Shrike had planned a terrible, daring deed. Something that would shame the crown, strike at my very heart, and be the start of the war he had been working so hard to begin. 

“On the night the queen gave birth to our first child, the nursemaid was to steal the princess.”

The Once Princess, Part 1

 Oie blanche, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Many tales have been told of Beatrix, Princess of Ravenspire, who lived for the first fifteen years of her life as the lowest peasant—daughter of no one, loved by nobody in particular, living off discarded cabbages in the gutter—until the momentous day when a royal messenger rode into her village with the pronouncement that she was, in fact, a long-lost daughter of the king. Born on the same day as a nursemaid’s child, she had been switched with the peasant child just an hour after her birth. Now the truth had been discovered, all would be set right, and Beatrix would one day inherit the whole kingdom. 

And those are wonderful tales. Unless you happen to be the nursemaid’s real child. Unless that was the momentous day you discovered you had no home and no family.

Hands Off

New Year, and a yellow world dawned. Fresh, yet with an unhealthy tinge, like a jaundiced baby. I stepped into the unseasonably warm air, loosed the collar of my school uniform, and took off across the quad, as certain as I'd ever been that this was the right thing to do.

Why was I so certain? Couldn't I have sent the feelers of my thought into the future and sensed the shape of the next few years? Someone once said that every action echoes in eternity. If there is such a thing as a backward echo, surely, I would have realized there was no possibility of waking up in my bed the next day with all the world unchanged.

But I heard no echo.

Familiar shapes in my peripheral vision—columns, shadowy porches, white-topped figures in skirts hurrying late to breakfast. Back from winter break and slipping into old habits. I swung open a heavy door, tromped down corridors and up stairs, and arrived before a portrait.

He was a balding man draped in black robes, not bothering to look at the painter. The sight of his fat hands made my stomach clench. I didn't even glance around the room before opening my satchel and pulling out a brand new can of spray paint.

I thought no one saw. No one stopped me.

Seconds later, I stepped back to survey my handiwork. Finally thinking of myself, I shoved the can away and walked fast down a flight of stairs—a back service entrance Tracey had told me about. I didn't stop until I arrived at the dorm, where I collapsed against a brick wall and let my heart beat.

I didn't think about security cameras, guards, committees, or principals—the short-term consequences of my courageous idiocy. How much less did I imagine the lawyers, doctors, journalists, courtrooms, photographs, testimonies, and injustice of the years to come? At that moment, I knew whatever came would be worth it. I'd said my piece. Those dripping yellow letters—HANDS OFF—would get the message across. Maybe I'd be the last girl who'd have to tell him that.

Turns out I was the last, although my final words would be heard at the end of a knife.

A Picket Fence and Iced Tea

Her head was tilted to one side when I saw her, reminding me of an upside-down rabbit I'd once owned. She'd escaped to the backyard one night and it rained on her (the rabbit, not the old woman in the flowered overalls), and she was never the same again. An inner ear infection, I think. She always had her head tilted upside down after that. Until her tragic death at the hands (or, more accurately, teeth) of the neighbor's Rottweiler. 

As I say, Tamara reminded me of that rabbit, the way her head almost rested on her left shoulder. She walked toward me down the garden path and stuck out her hand.

"Howdy, friend. Don't mind me, just trying to unstick a little earwax. Been bothering me for a week. My hearing isn't the best on a good day, but I'm half deaf now. Nothing a little hydrogen peroxide can't help. What can I do for you?"

Ms Tibby's Surprise

Tibby loved misty mornings. Good thing that Moorwood had plenty to spare. Nestled as the village was in a valley with a wide river running through it, nearly every morning was shrouded in a steamy haze. She liked drinking her coffee in the back garden, taking a seat on the dewy patio furniture and enjoying how mysterious every common thing looked. Moorwood was far from magical during the day, but right now, at the first breach of darkness, there were secrets in the air. 

This morning, she could hardly see to the fence on the far side of the garden. She was peering at the leaves of her espaliered pear tree, watching them reveal themselves in the mist, when a branch twitched. A bird, no doubt, lighting on a twig.

It happened again. Tibby blinked and stood up as if that would help her see better. There—again. The branch was shaking quite violently, and there was no possibility that it could be a bird. Perhaps it was another kind of animal, but she didn't think so. Tibby placed her coffee cup firmly down on the table and balled up her toes inside her house slippers.

Wayfarer: A Short Story

Peregrine could no longer ignore the gate. For years it had dogged her, in one place or another. Dark alleyways, the ends of long corridors—her own home—wherever she least expected. Once or twice the gate had materialized right in front of her and she’d tripped over herself to get away. It always vanished after a few moments, but she knew it would come back. It pursued her.

It was frustrating and humiliating, how that shabby little gate disturbed her. She’d first seen it at the age of 12 when her grandmother died. It had not seemed so frightening then, but later it had taken on a horrifying significance.

She would be doing the most ordinary things—washing dishes at the sink, having a drink with friends, walking to work—when she’d remember something. Maybe her grandmother’s words, something she’d read, or a question that niggled in the back of her mind…and then she’d see it. She’d see the gate and the path beyond it. For one wild moment, she'd panic in irrational fear, but she knew that if she walked away, the haunting image would fade and her uneasy peace return.

What Makes Me Mad

Can I start this in the winter?

Can I start the story on a sad note?

Can I start it on the morning when we ran up to see the sunrise from the water tower and I realized I had lost my friend forever?

An Audacious Plan Pt. 2

I yelled to Jamie to double-check that his toothbrush was in his backpack. He yelled back that he’d checked three times already. Well, what else is a mother to do? I tried closing my suitcase, but that was easier said than done. I yanked the zipper until I was sure it would break, then slammed the entire weight of my body on the top. Miraculously, it closed. 

 

Photo by Craig Sunter

Steve stood in the hallway looking like a lost puppy. “Jenny, I can’t find my windbreaker. I’ve looked everywhere."

 

“Already packed, dear. It’s in the blue bag.” He threw up his hands and went into the bathroom to collect his toiletries. 

 

Planning an international trip had been no picnic. Though we hadn’t gone with the “next Tuesday” idea, opting instead to plan three months in advance, it seemed like barely a week since I’d had my Scotland vs. Iowa revelation. We'd had to plan our destinations and transportation, get passports for all four of us, buy random items like plug adapters and rubber boots, and most worrisome of all, try to figure out how on earth we were going to navigate two weeks in Britain with two young children. 

 

An Audacious Plan

I heaved the laundry basket out of the way to check the dryer for loose socks. Those things went missing at an alarming rate. Aha! There it was, stuck to the side. A black crew-cut.

I overturning the basket on the bed and set to sorting, folding, stacking, and stashing. One more task checked off the list. One more mundane activity. One step closer to taking my shoes off and collapsing in front of Poirot reruns.

Photo by Shawn Harquail

Mondays made me fatalistic. This Monday was no different, as Steve had mentioned that we should plan our annual family vacation. Really? Did we have to discuss it? It would be Iowa. It was always Iowa. Cornstalks, flat fields, pigs, cornstalks, windmills, bad food, cornstalks, the occasional tulip, cornstalks. I questioned my choice of corn-on-the-cob for dinner.

Just because Steve had one million relatives who were still alive and begging to see him and I had no one besides two old uncles in Georgia, we were condemned to a lifetime of two-week expeditions to corn country. Every. Single. Year.

On my journey back toward the laundry closet, I glimpsed a purple-spotted heel peeking out from beneath the coffee table. Well, that was one sock that would have to wait until next week. I bent to pick it up and noticed it was acting as a bookmark in our picture book of Scotland. I opened it to the page on Inverness.

Gregory's Garden

Seeing Gregory was the highlight of Lisette's day. She always saw him in profile as he sat on his grandmother's porch swing—his messy dark bangs hanging over a large pair of glasses that kept slipping down his long nose that was always buried in a book.

But that's as far as it went. Seeing. And she couldn't look too long or he might notice the strange, freckle-faced girl next door staring at him and then she'd never be able to go outside the house ever again. It would be awkward to become a permanent hermit. She'd have to get her mom to go to the library for her, and the chances of traveling to Italy from inside her Minneapolis home were slim to none.

photo by Joe Kirschling

Over the last couple of years, Lisette had tried everything to get Gregory's attention. She'd "accidentally" thrown a piece of paper over his side of the fence and been forced to retrieve it, she'd managed to be outside nearly every time he came home on the bus, and she'd even gone so far as to wave hello on more than one occasion. Last spring she had taken up gardening just so that she'd have an excuse to spend hours in the front yard. She'd done everything but actually speak to him; that was something reserved for daydreams.

The Library

Hans pushed the weighty door, sliding it back on its hinges to reveal the stately grandeur of the Intramural Metropolitan Library. Every time he came here he had to catch his breath, from aggravation rather than admiration.

He strode forward, soles scraping the soft carpet, ears pricking at the sound of a few typewriters and hushed voices hidden behind shelves of books. Books were everywhere. The place reeked of them: fresh ones, musty ones, sharp and pungent ones, dark and mellow ones…. It was enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge. Walking past Reception (where Wilma gave him a knowing nod), he set his face toward the back right corner. That’s where she’d be. He could see her now as he had many times before, and the thought made his blood boil. Didn’t she know what was good for her? Didn’t she know what was expected—no—absolutely required of her?

The Morning I Grew Up

The morning I grew up was an early riser. 

I felt the nudge on the side of my bed, heard a soft whisper, and knew that Mary had come to wake me. Seven minutes later I was brushing my hair in front if the mirror, studying my own bright eyes, thinking about the day ahead and wondering in a dozen different directions.

Mary left me for a moment, I never knew why, and I went I to the bathroom to brush my teeth. To an eight-year old the room was enormous, a wash of white tile studded with bronze fixtures, the pedestal sink almost unreachable, the mirror taking up half the room and reflecting my pink nightgown back impossibly tiny.

Coffee Talk

"I don't have a dog in this fight."

"Listen, Belinda--it's not a question of 'if,' it's 'when.' What is it gonna take for you to wake up and see reality?"

"This is my front porch you're sittin' on and that's my coffee you're drinkin'. You can either be civil or leave both right now."

"OK, OK. But I mean what I say. You've got a decision to make and it's gotta be soon."

"Just because Preistly is giving you a hard time doesn't mean I have to jump when she says jump."

Oscar ran an oil-stained hand through his thinning hair. Belinda could be the stubbornest ***** in Macon when she wanted to be. He wondered what her problem was today. Bills in the mail? Someone hit her dog? Air conditioner broke? Menopause? Whatever it was, he'd picked the wrong morning to knock on her door. "It's urgent, or I wouldn't be here at this hour. Now I'm already late for work, but you've gotta hear what I'm sayin'."

New Employers

Her first impression of Alane Gylmyn was not promising. He was a tall, thin man with a shock of black hair falling into a white face with two wide, staring eyes—almost comical—and a drooping chin. He looked alarmed to see a pretty young woman standing on his doorstep, looking up at him with a nervous, but obviously determined, face.

“May I see Madam Gylmyn, please?”

“Why, why, yes of course. May, may I get your name please?”

“Alyssum Bourne, from Saltersgate.”

“Saltersgate, you say. You’ve come quite a long way then?”

“Yes, sir, I have. May I hitch my horse?”

“Of course, yes, please let me help you.”

Cecily smiled for the first time in days as the awkward young man took Grane’s reins from her hand and led him away, leaving her to go inside alone.

The house was pleasant, whitewashed, simple. Though this was presumably the home of a “fallen” family, it was far and away more modern than Cecily had ever seen, even in Granton Castle. A small fireplace was set into one corner of the room with a tidy row of ornaments gracing the mantle and a neat little fire burning away inside. The simple chairs, doors, and tables were all immaculate, the rugs on the well-swept floor had been painstakingly straightened, and even the shafts of sunlight shining through spotless windows had the decency to be an impeccable white. This room, and presumably all rooms beyond and above it, was utterly irreproachable, trim, and orderly. Cecily ran her finger along the top of a tiny side table and wondered why this family needed a maid, when she looked up to see that a gray figure had silently appeared in the room.

“Good morning. Are you here to answer for the position?”

Cecily locked her quivering legs and got out the words, “I am here to apply for work as a maid.”

The woman was obviously a close relation to the man who had opened the door, they had both been painted with the same unflinching brush. This person (whom Cecily would soon learn to call Muire) was spare of frame, very pale, and dressed in the most efficient manner possible. She sat down in one of the hard wooden chairs and gestured for Cecily to take a seat. What followed was a battery of questions, delivered in a clipped and decisive manner, that made the cottager girl from Whitcrowe squirm helplessly in her seat.

When the interview ended Cecily remained seated, looking at Muire’s bowed head as the woman scribbled something on a thin sheet of paper, silent as the grave. Finally, she raised her ashy eyes to Cecily’s face and folded the paper, running her fingernail down the fold so that it flattened in a perfect half. “I will have to see what Mother has to say.”

As soon as the words left her mouth a door opened to reveal a dark hallway beyond, and the figure of a bent little woman. This woman was also thin and white, but with the tiniest spark of color in her crinkly cheeks; she walked with the aid of a gnarled stick, but it didn’t seem to inhibit her movement much because she hobbled rapidly over to Cecily as soon as she saw her and leaned in close with her bird-like face. “So this is our new maid, Muire? Quite pretty, isn’t she, I wouldn’t have believed it. Didn’t think God made girls like that nowadays. So pleased to meet you dearie, what did you say your name was?”

“I, I didn’t. It’s Alyssum—”

“Ah, alyssum. That’s the sort of flower you put in rockeries isn’t it? Lovely name dear, our garden used to be bursting with alyssum, that is until Muire pulled it all up and put in those dreadful weedy things.”

Muire Gylmyn looked like a candle wick that’s just been doused with cold water, practically dripping with outraged self-importance and all but glaring at her mother from behind lowered lashes. Cecily felt like congratulating the garrulous old woman.

Soon Cecily was ensconced in a rather more comfortable chair and sipping strong black tea while Madam G rambled along, relating the entire family history back to the time of the Campaigns. Muire had gone to visit some ailing relative, Alane was curled up in a corner with a book half the size of a horse, and a third sibling, Deirdre, sat across from Cecily with a half-finished quilt in her lap. Deirdre was slightly plumper than the rest of her family, but came equipped with some of her sister’s clean practicality. There had been another sister, Cecily soon learned, a woman named Eithne who had made a very nice match about a month ago and then gone away to raise chickens in the Fornaway Islands. 

Medieval Houses, a photo by stevecadman on Flickr.

A Dialogue Dilemma

I've been having a rough time trying to decide how to write realistic, believable dialogue for the characters of my "medieval" fantasy book (www.BeastAndBeauty.com). I wonder if I should make their language archaic and flowery, or more palatable to the modern ear. I don't want to sound pedantic, but am afraid that if the words coming out of my characters' mouths are too modern, it will seem anachronistic. I'm not sure that I'm capable of writing absolutely "authentic" dialogue, anyway!

For example, how do I get the point across in this passage of dialogue, staying true to the setting but also using vocabulary that is readable?

   “Cessy, are you happy here?”

   “I think so.”

   “You don’t sound very sure.”

   “Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sure what happiness is. Is it adventure? Is it greatness? Is it meaning? Is it love? Is it contentment? Is it wonder? Is it skill? Is it a little bit of everything? How can I tell if I’m happy if I hardly know the meaning of the word?”

   Alis gave a low, husky laugh. “I’m afraid that there isn’t a set definition, dearie. It’s different for everyone. I was happy with your father, happier than I had any right to be, but he would have driven another woman half mad with all his quirks and follies. That was my happiness—my home, my friends, my daughter. Your happiness may be very different indeed.”

I asked a fellow authoress her opinion of my predicament. Betsy St. Amant from the Scribble Chicks blog says this:

This is a tough one. The same rule sort of applies here as to dialect, such as someone who speaks with a strong southern accent, or any accent, etc. You don't want the dialect to be so strong and in every sentence so the reader gets frustrated and puts the book down. The way experts advise handling that is to introduce that character with a slightly strong first sentence. Then the next scene, tone it down to maybe two or three dialect words. Then from then on, only one per scene or so. Enough to remind the reader of their accent so they can "hear it" without bombarding them with it to the point of having to wade through dialogue.  

Your question is similiar though not identical. Could the same rule somehow apply to your situation? Maybe start a little archaic and flowery, and immeidately tone it down and keep it subtle as the novel progresses? If you set it up the way you want it, then you can trust your reader to continue to "hear it" and understand as they go.  

This is probably going to be a trial and error type of situation. I'd recommend trying what I suggested and having a reader or friend give you their honest opinion as to how it flows.Also, think about what YOU like - because you're a reader too. When you read a medieval fantasy novel, do you like reading poetic dialogue that might take you longer to comprehend but is true to the times? Or would you rather get on with the story?

What fantastic advice! I'll try my best to implement it.

What is your opinion of this dilemma?

women talk, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

The Gylmyns

But Heaven is not idleness, and Cecily had no delusions of resting for three solid months. If nothing else, the indefatigable energy of  Deirdre and Muire would be enough to drive an idle person to distraction, wearing away at a tender conscience with every yard of lace tatted, every potato peeled, and every piece of pottery scrubbed within an inch of its destruction.

Fatality in the Rain

The Rain-Collecting Road, originally uploaded by ashleigh290.

This is a bit of a spoiler (in case anyone intends to read the book I'm working on), but is one of the scenes I'm most proud of so far. Enjoy!

________________________________________

   A cart was rattling rapidly down the street, the farmer was impatient to get home. Rain had been washing the world into a giant mud puddle for the past four days, and this street (nothing more than a narrow dirt track that caught the runoff from every other street in town) was becoming nearly impassable.

   Most of the townspeople were sitting inside their warm, brightly-lit homes—the tall imposing ones that only well-to-do merchants could afford; the kind that seemed to lean in to touch each other over the street, blocking out the light. The farmer sneered at the tall houses as he passed under them, and was drenched with a bucketful of water from one of their rainspouts for his pains. Cursing and shivering, hunching up his shoulders against a world that hated him, he neglected to see a small child playing at the edge of the road. It was a little girl with golden hair, a red dress, and small white fingers that were making two wooden dolls fall in love.

   The farmer did not see her. The horses did not see her. All they saw was the mist of rain that fell like a sodden gray blanket on the air. The girl did not see the cart or the pounding hooves of the horses. All she saw was her dolls. The only one who saw anything and everything was a woman with strands of wet, gray hair who stood at the other side of the street.

   In a moment it was over, and someone screamed. The farmer lay unconscious, bent into an unnatural position. The girl was mud-spattered and shaking; it was she who had screamed. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Deserted as the street had appeared, at the sharp sound of alarm dozens of villagers materialized from shadowy entryways, inadequately dressed and apprehensive. One of them had turned white in that moment, dropping her basket and sending its burden of rosy pink apples rolling away—bouncing down the narrow lane, splashing through the rain and muck. She felt as though she ran in slow motion, her nerves sluggish, none of the emotion she should be feeling making its way to her face.

   Cecily collapsed by the side of Alis’s broken body, holding her mother’s head between her knees and kissing the bloody mouth. The cart creaked and moaned and dug one of its wheels harder into the woman’s body. Alis let out a whimper and shut her eyes. “Mum, Mum, Mum. Please hold on, will it, only will it. You have to make it, please, you have to make it. Don’t let it end this way! Oh, Mum, I saved you once...” She choked on the words before she said them, knowing that it would take all of her strength and more to bend power to her will as she once had, as I swore never to do again. It gets out of hand. It takes over me. I said I’d never let it take me again. But I’d do…anything….

   Alis suddenly flung out her hand to grasp Cecily’s in a death-grip. “Don’t help me, Cessy. It is my time. This has—been long delayed.”  

   “I need you!” The words were a shriek that grew louder with every syllable. A housewife stopped to stare. The horses had been led away and a few men were now trying to heave the cart off of its victim, but only succeeded in grinding it deeper into the mud.

   “No, Cecily, you need the One who gave me to you and you to me. Talk to Him, my dear. Never let Him go.”

   “How can you talk about me at a time like this? Mum, you’re the most important thing in the world!”

   Alis’s look could have frozen stone. “Never say that, dearest one.”

   Cecily lifted her tear-stained, rain-smattered face to the dreary heavens and wondered at the turns of life—like a road with so many twists that there was never any hope of seeing more than a few feet beyond the place where one stood.

   The hand that held hers squeezed a little tighter, and a spasm of agony shot across the dying woman’s face.

   “Mum.”

   “Cessy, darling, I told you that we weren’t alone.”

   She was gone.