KISSING THE WITCH

Old Tales in New Skins

By

Emma Donoghue

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE TALE OF THE SHOE

THE TALE OF THE BIRD

THE TALE OF THE ROSE

THE TALE OF THE APPLE

THE TALE OF THE HANDKERCHIEF

THE TALE OF THE HAIR

THE TALE OF THE BROTHER

THE TALE OF THE SPINSTER

THE TALE OF THE COTTAGE

THE TALE OF THE SKIN

THE TALE OF THE NEEDLE

THE TALE OF THE VOICE

THE TALE OF THE KISS

THE TALE OF THE SHOE

Till she came it was all cold.

Ever since my mother died the feather bed felt hard as a stone floor. Every word that came out of my mouth limped away like a toad. Whatever I put on my back now turned to sackcloth and chafed my skin. I heard a knocking in my skull, and kept running to the door, but there was never anyone there. The days passed like dust brushed from my fingers.

I scrubbed and swept because there nothing else to do. I raked out the hearth with my fingernails, and scoured the floor until my knees bled. I counted grains of rice and divided brown beans from black.

Nobody made me do the things I did, nobody scolded me, nobody punished me but me, The shrill voices were all inside. Do this, do that, you lazy heap of dirt. They knew every question and answer, the voices in my head. Some days they asked why I was still alive.

I listened out for my mother, but I couldn’t hear her among their clamor.

When everything that could possibly be done was done for the day, the voices faded. I knelt on the hearth and looked into the scarlet cinders until my eyes swam. I was trying to picture a future, I suppose. Some nights I told myself weep, then stroked my own hair till I slept.

Once, out of all the times when I ran to the door and there was nobody there, there was still nobody there, but the stranger was behind me. I thought for a moment she must have come out of the fire. Her eyes had flames in their centers, and her eyebrows were silvered with ash.

The stranger said my back must be tired, and the sweeping could wait. She took me into the garden and showed me a hazel tree I had never seen before. I began to ask questions, but she put her tiny finger over my mouth so we could hear a dove murmuring on the highest branch.

It turned out that she had known my mother, when my mother was alive. She said that was my mother’s tree.

How can I begin to describe the transformations? My old dusty self spun new. This woman sheathed my limbs in blue velvet. I was dancing on points of clear glass.

And then, because I asked, she took me to the ball. Isn’t that what girls are meant to ask for?

Her carriage brought me as far as the palace steps. I knew just how I was meant to behave. I smiled ever so prettily when the doors swung wide to announce me. I refused a canapé and kept my belly pulled in. Under the thousand crystal candelabras I danced with ten elderly gentlemen who had nothing to say but did not let that stop them. I answered only, Indeed and Oh yes and Do you think so?

At ten to twelve I came down the steps and she swept me away.

Had enough? she asked, lifting my hair off my long glove.

But she was old enough to be my mother, and I was a girl with my fortune to make. The voices were beginning to jabber. They each told me to do something different. Take me back tomorrow night, I said.

So she appeared again just when the soup was boiling over, and took a silver spoon from her pocket to feed me. Our fingers drew pictures in the ashes on the hearth, vague shapes of birds and islands. She showed me the sparkle in my eyes, how wide my skirt could spread, how to waltz without getting dizzy. I was lithe in green satin now; my own mother would not have recognized me.

That night at the ball I got right into the swing of things. I tittered at the old king’s jokes; I accepted a single chicken wing and nibbled it daintily. I danced three times with the prince, whose hand wavered in the small of my back. He asked me my favorite color, but I couldn’t think of any. He asked me my name, and for a moment I couldn’t remember it.

At five to midnight when my feet were starting to ache I waited on the bottom step and she came for me. On the way home I leaned my head on her narrow shoulder and she put one hand over my ear.

Had enough? she asked.

But I didn’t have to listen to the barking voices to know how the story went: my future was about to happen. Take me back tomorrow night, I said.

So she came for me again just when the small sounds of the mice were getting on my nerves, and she told me they were coachmen to drive us in state. She claimed her little finger was a magic wand, it could do spectacular things. She could always make me laugh.

That night my new skin was red silk, shivering in the breeze. The prince hovered at my elbow like an autumn leaf ready to fall. The musicians played the same tune over and over. I danced like a clockwork ballerina and smiled till my face twisted. I swallowed a little of everything I was offered, then leaned over the balcony and threw it all up again.

I had barely time to wipe my mouth before the prince came to propose.

Out on the steps he led me, under the half-full moon, all very fairy-tale. His long mustaches were beginning to tremble; he seemed like an actor on a creaking stage. As soon as the words began to leak out of his mouth, they formed a cloud in which I could see the future.

I could hardly hear him. The voices were shrieking, Yes yes yes say yes before you lose your chance you bag of nothingness.

I opened my teeth but no sound came out. There was no harm in this man; what he proposed was white and soft, comfortable as fog.

There was nothing to be afraid of. But just then the midnight bell began to toll out the long procession of years, palatial day by moonless night. And I leapt backward down the steps, leaving one shoe behind.

The bushes tore my dress into the old rags. It was perfectly silent on the lawn. She was waiting for me in the shadows. She didn’t ask had I had enough.

I had got the story all wrong. How could I not have noticed she was beautiful? I must have dropped all my words in the bushes. I reached out.

I could hear surprise on her breath. What about the shoe? she asked.

It was digging into my heel, I told her.

What about the prince? she asked.

He’ll find someone to fit, if he looks long enough.

What about me? she asked very low. I’m old enough to be your mother.

Her finger was spelling on the back of my neck.

You’re not my mother, I said. I’m old enough to know that.

I threw the other shoe into the brambles, where it hung, glinting.

So then she took me home, or I took her home, or we were both somehow taken to the closest thing.

In the morning I asked,

Who were you before you walked into my kitchen?

And she said, Will I tell you my own story?

It is the tale of a bird.

THE TALE OF THE BIRD

When I was as young as you are now I learned how to save my own life. You think I have saved you, but the truth is that your need has conjured me here. It was a bird that helped me, when I was young, but it could have been anything: a stick, a stone, whatever happened by. The thing is to take your own life in your hands.

As a child I weighed mine and did not think it worth saving.

Scrubbing the great steps one day, I found an old bent copper knife. In its corroded curve, my reflection was barely a thumbnail high. Now I knew for sure that I was the least thing in the world.

The dogs and cats mattered more than I did. They had their places on the earth; they merited their grooming, their feeding, or their drowning; no one questioned their existence. Whereas I was not a necessary animal.

There was a man I had been taught to call father. He saw to the horses in the great stables, their bright mouths and metal chorus; his eyes never fell to my level. There was a woman who called herself my mother. She wore an apron like a snow cloud; her hands blushed read as if ashamed. I could not imagine that I had emerged from her substantial flesh; it seemed more likely that she found me caught in a cowpat, or behind the apple barrel, or while cleaning out a mousetrap. Once, eavesdropping in the laundry, I heard her tell a neighbor that she had spent twenty years pining for a child. I could hardly have been what she had in mind.

You must understand, I was not ill-treated; no one wasted breath flinging insults at my head. I did not belong, that was all. Nor did anything belong to me; mine was a borrowed life. Considering myself as the louse in their bed, the cuckoo in their nest, I felt a certain reluctant gratitude for the food and shelter they allowed me.

I wore scraps of everyone’s worn-out clothing: my shoes were made of the gardener’s gloves, my shift from old handkerchiefs.

My names were hand-me-downs too: girl, the creature, or, most often, you there.

Every story I ever heard of changelings, babies swapped at birth or abandoned in bulrushes, I repeated to myself at night to glean its secret message. But I had no idea how I had drifted into the path of these indifferent giants called father and mother, and I did not dare to ask.

Only in the fields did I find a sense of proportion. I knew we were all equally minute under the liquid eye of the sky, and equally precious in its sight. I used to sit so still even the rabbits would not notice me. Seagulls wheeled overhead, gulping out their hunger.

Swallows made letters against the sky, too brief to read. Once I spent a whole day there, a blade of grass in each hand to anchor me to the warm earth. I watched the sun rise, pass over my head and set. Ladybirds mated on my knuckle; a shrew nibbled a hole in my stocking while I tried not to laugh. Such a day was worth any punishment.

My mother and father beat me when they felt the need, but only by the rule of thumb: thin sticks break no bones. What they wanted, I believe, was not to hurt me, but to teach me the way things were.

The lesson was simple, and if I did not learn it I had only myself to blame. The birch pen wrote it often enough on the skin of my back.

Keep you r horizons narrow, your expectations low, and you will never be unduly disappointed. Keep your heart infinitesimally small, and sorrow will never spy it, never plunge, never flap away with your heart in her claws.

So when one spring in spite of all this good advice I fell in love, it felt like disaster. I took

a tiny bite and it exploded in my stomach. Love splashed through every cranny, hauled on every muscle, unlocked every joint. I was so full of astonishment, I felt ten feet tall. My shoulder itched as if wings might break through.

Little one, your skin is so soft, said the man as he stroked my cheek with one huge thumb.

I always started quivering as soon as I heard his knock at the door; when I opened it and curtsied, my knees dipped like a frog’s; his first smile set me a-stutter. His eyes, cloudy under billows of black hair, were the only weak thing about him. He could always recognize me by the sound of my breathing.

Once I scrubbed the same corner for three hours, and when the man finally passed I upset my pail of dirty suds all down the passage. He stepped back at once, but his shiny leather shoes had been spattered like rocks by the seashore. I tried to wipe them with my apron, but he lifted me to my feet. Such force in his forearm; what an aimed bow was his elbow; how delicious the arc of his shoulder. His hands were backed with a faint black fur. He was like the boulder that parts the river, and he smelt like apples stored in darkness all winter.

I, who had nothing and no right to anything, would have him for my very own.

And so, somehow, it came to pass, as in the best of stories, as in the dream to which you cling like a torn blanket on an icy morning when it is past times to get up. My father, his words slurred with suspicion, told me that a great man had asked for me. My mother carried in a huge basket of linen and a needle. Unspeaking, we began to cut and sew my new life.

I would be a stain on my husband’s line, I knew that without her telling. If it was his whim to stoop, to lift me up, then I was never to delude myself that I deserved it. I was always to keep in mind the tiny smoky image of what an insignificant creature I had been before he honored me with his gaze.

But when I was presented to him, in my new dress, he made me forget all my fears. He discovered my in my long sleeve and began to count my finger. No sooner had my parents backed out of the room than he was bending over me to sink his face into my hair. His whisper boomed: what were they to us, now, or we to them? His ear, against my cheek, gave off a surprising heat; my finger crawled along its furred tunnels like a venturesome bee. He would take me away from all this, he promised, give me a new name, never let anything hurt me. I began to shudder with pleasure.

The morning after our wedding, I lay awake beside the hot mountain that was my husband. I traced the brown pattern we had made on the linen: was it a flower, a claw, a snowflake? At last I decided that it was the sign of two leaves growing round each other. I belonged to him now, and he to me.

With surprising ease I learned to rule a house greater than the one I had scrubbed for my keep. I knew who I was at last: this was what I had been born for. I liked to walk through the corridors, my train of brocade sweeping the flagstones; I found delight in every pane of glass I would never have to wash. When, within the month, I found I was with child, every mirror seemed to echo my grandeur.

Shameless, I longed for it to show; I wanted to be the shape of an apple of the noontime sun.

One morning at midsummer I woke early and thought I would go out to see the grass grow and the birds rise, as I used to in the days when it was my only consolation. How different I was now; how I had grown rich in things of the spirit and flesh; how my skin felt taut as a tambourine. And then my husband peered sleepily over his shoulder and asked where I was going.

It all made perfect sense the way he explained it to me as I sat on the edge of the bed: the danger of wandering under the scathing sun, the risk of exposure to rough men in the cornfields, the unsuitability of such a thing , I nodded, and laughed with him, and that morning was true that I would rather climb into the cave of his arms and fill myself up with bliss again.

But as my hips widened the great house began to seem too small. I paced the corridors until I knew them by heart; I learned every angle of the courtyard. In their smooth leather, my feet itched for the stubble of the open fields, and my eyes strained for a far horizon.

I set out again one Sunday, when there could be no men in the fields, but still my husband said no; this time his eyes were a little bewildered. I tried again when he was away on business, but the housekeeper would not give me the key to open the gate. I sneaked off another day, while he was counting his money, and still he was gentle when they brought me back, thought I could see anger stretching itself between his brows. Again, he put it to me in words a child could understand. He enclosed my two hands in one of his huge fists, and kissed the tears from my cheeks.

I nodded. I wiped my face. I knew it was unreasonable to pine so much for a walk in the sunshine. My husband laughed softly, and wondered aloud what a breeding wife would ask for next: to fly like a kite, or a fox for a pet, or charcoal to chew on? It was only then, staring into the blur of his eyes, that it all became clear to me, and dread stopped up my mouth.

Oh, my husband was no tyrant; he would never sell my jewels, or steal my children, or cut off my head. But now I knew that what I wanted was not the same as what he wanted for me. What this good man had sworn to protect me from was not the same as what I feared. I trusted that he would never let anything hurt me, but he would never let anything touch me either.

Summer declined into chilly autumn. From my window I could see restless flocks of birds forming themselves into arrowheads, pointing south. Sometimes they faltered, broke the shape, swung loose like hail, but always they came back together.

Day by day my belly swelled with life, but the rest of me was shrinking. My husband had taken to referring to me as if I were someone else. H is my dearest wife today? he would ask, and I would stare back mutely and think, I don’t know, how is she?

Where is she? Who is she? Bring her here, so I can ask her how I am to live this life.

One day he found me kneeling in a corridor, over a bundle of brown feathers. A tiny swallow: it must have flown down a chimney and battered itself to death. I was sobbing so hard he thought my time had come; he was stumbling away in search of the midwife when I turned to him and held out my hands. He peered, his face almost touching the skewed feathers, and for a moment I feared he would laugh, but his face was grave as he raised it toward me. My love, he said, what is a bird to us, or we to a bird?

I had no answer to give him. When he tried to lift me up I was too heavy for him; my legs were frozen to the ground.

As I knelt there, aware of his steps dying away, I felt a tremor under my thumbs. When I brought the bird nearer to my face, I could sense a tiny pulse. Not quite dead, then: halfway to alive.

In the week that followed, I fed the brittle creature drops of milk form my smallest fingertip and kept it warm in my fur collar.

Everything waited. I refused to think about myself: my exceptional fortune, my perfect house, my excellent husband, who could make any woman happy if she let him. I simply waited to see if the bird would live.

One day it swallowed. One day it stood. One day it flew, and the next it got a glimpse of sky and tried to smash thought the glass. I could have kept it beside me, a silk-tethered plaything, but what would have been the use of that?

I took it to the highest window in the house and let it out. The kick of its wings was surprisingly strong. The air smelt like frost, but there was still time to reach the summer land. I stood, watching the bird wheel over the rooftops. Flesh weighted me down like a robe.

The child within me was kicking, a mute clamor for release.

Next time. Next year. I would get away somehow, sometime, with or without this child, heading somewhere I knew nothing about but that the sun would shine down on my naked head, I would be hurt and I would be fearful, but I would never be locked up again.

My life was in my own hands, now, beating faintly, too small yet for anyone to notice. I cupped freedom to my breast. I would feed it, I would love it, it would grow big enough to carry me away.

The bird circled back, and hovered outside my window for a moment as if it had something to say.

In a whisper I asked,

Who were you before you took to the skies?

And the bird said, Will I tell you my own story?

It is a tale of a rose.

THE TALE OF THE ROSE

In this life I have nothing to do but cavort on the wind, but in my last it was my fate to be a woman.

I was beautiful, or so my father told me. My oval mirror showed me a face with nothing written on it. I had suitors a plenty but wanted none o f them: their doggish devotion seemed too easily won. I had an appetite for magic, even then. I wanted something improbable and perfect as a red rose just opening.

Then in a spring storm my father’s ships were lost at sea, and my suitors wanted none of me. I looked in my mirror, and saw, not myself, but every place I’d never been.

The servants were there one day and gone the next; they seemed to melt into the countryside. Last year’s leaves and papers blew across the courtyard as we packed to go. My father lifted heavy trunks till veins embroidered his forehead. He found me a blanket to wrap my mirror in for the journey. My sisters held up their pale sleek fingers and complained to the wind. How could they be expected to toil with their hands?

I tucked up my skirts and got on with it. It gave me a strange pleasure to see what my back could bend to, my arms could bear.

It was not that I was better than my sisters, only that I could see further.

Our new home was a cottage; my father showed me how to nail my mirror to the flaking wall. There were weeds and grasses but no roses. Down by the river, where I pounded my father’s shirts white on the black rocks, I found a kind of peace. My hands grew numb and my dark hair tangled in the sunshine. I was washing my old self away; by midsummer I was almost ready.

My sisters sat just outside the door, in case a prince should ride by.

The warm breeze carried the occasional scornful laugh my way.

As summer was leaving with the chilly birds, my father got word that one of his ships had come safe to shore after all. His pale eyes stood out like eggs. What he wanted most, he said, was to bring us each home whatever we wanted. My sisters asked for heavy dresses, lined cloaks, fur-topped boots, anything to keep the wind out, so I asked for a red rose just opening.

The first snow had fallen before my father came home, but he did not have a rose for me. My sisters waited in the doorway, arms crossed. I ran to greet him, this bent bush who was my father inching across the white ground. I took the rose into my hand before he could drop it. My father fell down. The petals were scarlet behind their skin of frost.

We piled every blanket we possessed on top of him; still his tremors shook the bed. My sisters wept and cursed, but he couldn’t hear them. They cried themselves to sleep beside the fire.

That night in his delirium he raved of a blizzard and a castle, a stolen rose and a hooded beast. Then all of a sudden he was wide awake. He gripped my wrist and said, Daughter, I have sold you.

The story came wild and roundabout, in darts and flurries. I listened, fitting together the jagged pieces of my future. For a red rose and his life and a box of gold, my father had promised the beast the first thing he saw when he reached home. He had thought the first thing might be a cat. He had hoped the first thing might be a bird.

My heart pounded on the anvil of my breastbone. Father, I whispered, what does a promise mean when it is made to a monster?

He shut his trembling eyes. It’s no use, he said, his tongue dry in his mouth. The beast will find us, track us down, smell us out no matter where we run. And then water ran down his cheeks as if his eyes were dissolving. Daughter, he said in a voice like old wood breaking, can you ever forgive me?

I could only answer his question with one of my own. Putting my hand over his mouth, I whispered, Which of us would not sell all we had to stay alive?

He turned his face to the wall.

Father, I said, I will be ready to leave in the morning.

Now you may tell me that I should have felt betrayed, but I was shaking with excitement. I should have felt like a possession, but for the first time in my life I seemed to own myself. I went as a hostage, but it seemed as if I was riding into battle.

I left the rose dying against my mirror, in case I ever came home.

My sisters, onion eyed, watched us leave at dawn. They couldn’t understand why my father carried no gun to kill the beast. To them a word was not something to be kept.

The castle was in the middle of a forest where the sun never shone.

Every villager we stopped to ask the way spat when they heard our destination. There had been no wedding or christening in that castle for a whole generation. The young queen had been exiled, imprisoned, devoured (here the stories diverged) by a hooded beast who could be seen at sunset walking on the battlements. No one had ever seen the monster’s face and lived to describe it.

We stopped to rest when the light was thinning. My father scanned the paths through the trees, trying to remember his way.

His eyes swiveled like lamb’s do when the wolves are circling. He took a deep breath and began to speak, but I said, Hush.

Night fell before we reached the castle, but the light spilling from the great doors led us through the trees. The beast was waiting at the top of the steps, back to the light, swaddled in darkness. I strained to see the contours of the mask. I imagined a different deformity for every layer of black cloth.

The voice, when it came, was not cruel but hoarse, as if it had not been much used in twenty years. The beast asked me, Do you come consenting?

I did. I was sick to my stomach, but I did.

My father’s mouth opened and shut a few times, as if he was releasing words that the cold air swallowed up. I kissed his papery cheek and watched him ride away. His face was lost in the horse’s mane.

Though I explored the castle from top to bottom over the first few days, I found no trace of the missing queen. Instead there was a door with my name on it, and the walls of my room were white satin. There were a hundred dresses cut to my shape. The great mirror showed me whatever I wanted t see. I had keys to every room in the castle except the one where the beast slept. The first book I opened said in gold letters: You are the mistress: ask for whatever you wish.

I didn’t now what to ask for. I had a room of my own, and time and treasures at my command. I had everything I could want except the key to the story.

Only at dinner was I not alone. The beast liked to watch me eat. I had never noticed myself eating before; each time I swallowed, I blushed.

At dinner on the seventh night, the beast spoke. I knocked over my glass, and red wine ran the length of the table. I don’t remember what the words were. The voice came out muffled and scratchy from behind the mask.

After a fortnight, we were talking like the wind and the roof slates, the rushes and the river, the cat and the mouse. The beast was always courteous; I wondered what scorn this courtesy veiled. The beast was always gentle; I wondered what violence hid behind this gentleness.

I was cold. The wind wormed through the shutters. I was lonely.

In all this estate there was no one like me. But I had never felt so beautiful.

I sat in my satin-walled room, before the gold mirror. I looked deep into the pool of my face, and tried to imagine what the beast looked like. The more hideous my imaginings, the more my own face seemed to glow. Because I thought the beast must be everything I was not: dark to my light, rough to my smooth, hoarse to my sweet. When I walked on the battlements under the waning moon, the beast was the grotesque shadow I threw behind me.

One night at dinner the beast said, You have never seen my face.

Do you still picture me as a monster?

I did. The beast knew it.

By day I sat by the fire in my white satin room reading tales of wonder. There were so many books on so many shelves, I knew I could live to be old without coming to the end of them. The sound of the pages turning was the sound of magic. The dry liquid feel of paper under fingertips was what magic felt like.

One night at dinner the beast said, You have never felt my touch.

Do you still shrink from it?

I did. The beast knew it.

At sunset I liked to wrap up in furs and walk in the rose garden.

The days were stretching, the light was lingering a few minutes longer each evening. The rosebushes held up their spiked fingers against the yellow sky, caging me in.

One night at dinner the beast asked, What if I let you go? Would you stay of your own free will?

I would not. The beast knew it.

And when I looked in the great gold mirror that night, I thought I could make out the shape of my father, lying with his feverish face turned to the ceiling.

The book did say I was to ask for whatever I wanted.

I set off in the morning. I promised to return on the eighth day, and I meant it when I said it.

Taking leave on the steps, the beast said, I must tell you before you go: I am not a man.

I knew it. Every tale I had ever heard of trolls, ogres, goblins, rose to my lips.

The beast said, You do not understand.

But I was riding away.

The journey was long, but my blood was jangling bells. It was dark when I reached home. My sisters were whispering over the broth. My father turned his face to me and tears carved their way across it. The rose, stiff against the mirror, was still red.

By the third day he could sit up in my arms. By the fifth day he was eating at table and patting my knee. On the seventh day my sisters told me in whispers that it would surely kill him if I went back to the castle. Now I had paid my ransom, they said, what could possess me to return to a monster? My father’s eyes followed me round the cottage.

The days trickled by it was spring. I pounded shirts on black rocks down by the river. I felt young again, as if nothing had happened, as if there had never been a door with my name on it.

But one night I woke to find myself sitting in front of my mirror.

In its dark pool I thought I could see the castle garden, a late frost on the trees, a black shape on the grass. I found the old papery rose clenched in my fist, flaking into nothing.

This time I asked no permission of anyone. I kissed my dozing father and whispered n his ear. I couldn’t tell if he heard me. I saddled my horse, and was gone before first light.

It was sunset when I reached the castle, and the doors were swinging wide. I ran through the grounds, searching behind every tree. At least I came to the rose garden, where the first buds were hunched against the night air. There I found the beast, a crumpled bundle eaten by frost.

I pulled and pulled until the padded mask lay uppermost. I breathed my heat on it, and kissed the spot I had warmed. I pulled off the veils one by one. Surely it couldn’t matter what I saw now?

I saw hair black as rocks under water. I saw a face white as old linen. I saw lips read as a rose just opening.

I saw that the beast was a woman. And that she was breathing, which seemed to matter more.

This was a strange story, one I would have to learn a new language to read, a language I could not learn except by trying to read the story.

I was a slow learner but a stubborn one. It took me days to learn that there was nothing monstrous about his woman who lived alone in a castle, setting all her suitors riddles they could make no sense of, refusing to do the things that queens are supposed to do, until the day when, knowing no one who could see her true face, she made a mask and from then on showed her face to no one. It took me weeks to understand why the faceless mask and the name of a beast might be chosen over all the great world had to offer. After months of looking, I saw that beauty was infinitely various, and found it behind her white face.

I struggled to guess these riddles and make sense of our story, and before I knew it summer was come again, and the red roses just opening.

And as the years flowed by, some villagers told travelers of a beast and a beauty who lived in the castle and could be seen walking on the battlements, and others told of two beauties, and others, of two beasts.

Another summer in the rose garden,

I asked, Who were you before you chose a mask over a crown?

And she said, Will I tell you my own story?

It is the tale of an apple.

THE TALE OF THE APPLE

The maid who brought me up told me that my mother was restless.

She said I had my mother’s eyes, always edging towards the steep horizon, and my mother’s long hands, never still. As the story went, my mother sat one day beside an open window looking out over the snow, embroidering coronets on a dress for the christening of the child she carried. The maid warned her that she’d catch her death if she sat in the cold, letting snow drift in and sprinkle her work. My mother didn’t seem to hear. Just then the needle drove itself into her finger, and three drops of blood stained the snow on the ebony window frame. My mother said to her maid, The daughter I carry will have hair as black as ebony, lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow. What will she have that well save her from my fate?

The maid had no answer, or not one that she could remember.

Then the pains seized my mother and carried her away.

Though I was so much smaller that she was, I was stronger; I had no reason not to want to live.

It was the maid who cared for me as I grew. Every autumn in her pocket she brought me the first apple from the orchard. This was not the mellow globe they served my father a month later, but the hardly bearable tang of the first ripening, so sharp it made me shudder.

Let it be said that my father did grow to care. After the maid, too, died in her turn, he found me wandering the drafty corridors of the castle and took me up in his stiff ermine arms. In the summertime he liked to carry me through the orchard and toss me high in the air, and then swing me low over the green turf. He was my toyman and my tall tree. As I grew and grew, he bounced me on his lap till our cheeks scalded.

But the day there was a patch of red on my crumpled sheet, my father brought home a new wife. She was not many years older than I was, but she had seen one royal husband into the grave already. She had my coloring. Her face was set like a jewel in a ring. I could see she was afraid; she kissed me and spoke sweetly in front of the whole court, but I could tell she would be my enemy. There was only room for one queen in a castle.

Yes, I handed this newcomer the ring with its hundred tinkling keys, the encrusted coronet, the velvet train of state, till she was laden down with all the apparatus of power. But it was me the folk waved to as the carriage rattled by; it was me who was mirrored in my father’s fond eyes; mine was the first apple from the orchard.

I know now that I would have liked her if we could have met as girls, ankle deep in a river. I would have taken her hand in mine if I had not found it weighted down by the ruby stolen from my mother’s cooling finger. I could have loved her if, if, if.

Her lips were soft against my forehead when she kissed me in front of the whole court. But I knew from the songs that a stepmother’s smile is like a snake’s, so I shut my mind to her from that very first day when I was rigid with the letting of first blood.

In the following months she did all she could to woo my friendship, and I began to soften. I thought perhaps I had misread the tight look in her eye. Eventually I let her dress me up in the silks and brocades she had brought over the mountains. It was she who laced up my stays every morning till I was pink with mirth; last thing at night it was she who undid the searing laces one by one and loosed my flesh into sleep. With her own hands she used to work the jeweled comb through my hair, teasing out the knots.

Not content with all this, she used to feed me fruit from her own bowl, each slice poised between finger and thumb till I was ready to take it. Though I never trusted her, I took delight in what she gave me.

My father was cheered to see us so close. Once when he came to her room at night he found us both there, cross-legged on her bed under on her bed under a sea of velvets and laces, trying how each earring looked against the other’s ear. He put his head back and laughed to see us. Two such fair ladies, he remarked, have never been seen on one bed. But which of you is the fairest of them all?

We looked at each other, she and I, and chimed in the chorus of his laughter. Am I imagining in retrospect that our voices rang a little out of tune? You see, her hair was black as coal, mine as ebony.

My lips were red as hers were, and our cheeks as pale as two pages of a book closed together. But our faces were not the same, and not comparable.

He let out another guffaw. Tell me, he asked, how am I to judge between two such beauties?

I looked at my stepmother, and she stared back at me, and our eyes were like mirrors set opposite each other, making a corridor of reflections, infinitely hollow.

My father grinned as he kissed me on the forehead, and pushed me gently out of the room, and bolted the door behind me.

But as the full of a year went by and my stepmother stayed as thin as the day he had first brought her to the castle, my father’s mouth began to stiffen. He questioned every doctor who passed through the mountains. He made his young wife drink cow’s blood, to strengthen her, though it turned her stomach. Finally he forbade her to go walking in the orchard with me, or lift a hand, or do anything except lie on her back and wait to find herself with child, the child who would be his longed-for son.

My stepmother lay on her back and grew so limp I could see the bone below her eyes. When I brought her red-bound books and jeweled earrings, she turned her face away. I took to walking in the orchard on my own again, and once or twice boredom drove me a little way into the forest that lay beyond the castle walls.

Fear enlivened those afternoons; I kept my back to the light and turned my head at every creak of wind. The forest was like a foreign court, with its own unspoken rules. The birches moved to music only they could hear; the oaks wanted for nothing, needed no touch.

As another year stretched into spring it was not my stepmother who lay swollen and sick, but my father. He curled up on his side like a bear troubled by flies. I stood by his bed, on and off, but he was past caring. He cursed the doctors, he cursed his enemies, he cursed the two wives who had failed him, and finally with a wet mouth he cursed the son who had never come.

My stepmother had me called to the throne room where she sat, huddled in ermine, fist closed around the scepter.

Say that I am queen, she said.

You are my father’s wife, I replied.

I will be queen after he is dead, she said.

I made no reply.

Say that I am queen, she repeated, her fingers whitening around the scepter.

If you really were, I told her, it would need no saying.

She stood on the pedestal above me. The moment I am a widow, she said, I could have you cast out.

Indeed.

If you cross me in this, she said confidingly, I could have a huntsman take you into the forest, chop out your heart, and bring it back on a plate.

Strong meat, I murmured.

I can do it, she howled. I have the power.

I said nothing.

She lashed out with the scepter, but I stepped back, and it crashed to the floor. I was gone before it tolled to a halt.

That night I heard many feet hammer a track to my father’s room.

I flattened my face into my pillow. I waited. No sound, cutting through the dark castle; no final word for me. The linen lay against my eyelids, still dry.

I decided not to stay to see what the day of the funeral would bring, which courtier’s eyes would shine with flattery, and which glitter with violence. I decided to leave it all to her, and leave her to it. I filled my hems with gold pieces and slipped away.

If it had been winter still, that first night would have finished me; only the mid air was my salvation. Wider than I imagined, the forest was home to creatures I couldn’t put names tom things with silver eyes and audible teeth; for all my furs, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. By sunrise I was more lost than any nestling. All my plans came to nothing: I never found the family of the maid who had raised me, nor an empty cottage to live in. Everything I put my tongue to tasted like poison.

After wandering half starved and half crazed for more days than I can remember, I had the good fortune to taken in by a gang of woodsmen.

They put water to my stained lips and asked who I was. The truth was quicker than a lie so I told it. They nodded. They had had heard of the death of the king. One of them asked what was in my skirts to make them so heavy, and I said, Knives, and he took his hand off my thigh and never touched me again.

That first night they fed me, and every other night I fed them.

Though squat and surly, with earth in every line of their faces, these were not bad men, and considering how little my condition entitled me to, they treated me royally.

I guessed how to cook the food they threw on the table, gathering together from the shattered jigsaw of memory everything I must have seen the castle servants do ten thousand times. Gradually I learned how to keep hunger at bay and disease from the door: all the sorcery of fire and iron and water.

Hard work was no hardship to me; it kept the pictures at bay.

Whenever I slackened or stopped to rest by the fire, I was haunted by the image of my stepmother. My father was only a tiny picture in my mind, shut away like a miniature in a locket. But his young widow stalked behind my eyes, growing tall or wide as I let my mind dwell on her, now smiling, now spitting, ever stretching like a shadow against a wall. I pictured her life as the queen of the castle, and it was strangely familiar: long days in charge of fire, and iron, and water. Her hands would stay smooth as lilies while mine were scrubbed raw day by day, but we were living much the same kind of life.

The men never asked what was in my mind, not even when I got lost in daze and let the broth burn. They let me dream by the fire like a cat.

This was only a lull, a time out of time. You see, I knew my stepmother would find me. The thread between us was stretched thin, wound round trees and snagged in thickets, but never broken.

Somehow I trusted she would track me down and kill me.

But when she came at last she seemed to have changed. I looked out over the half door one summer day and there she stood in the clearing, hitching her horse to a tree. There was nothing of the wife about her when she smiled. May I come into your house? she asked.

I said no and turned away. But when I had stoked up the fire and boiled the shirts and chopped the turnips, I went back to the door, out of curiosity, and she was still there, with her back to the tree.

I let her in for a minute. She said how thin I had grown. I said I was well. We said not a word of what was past. She said, I keep breaking mirrors.

Sitting by the fire with her I shut my eyes and it felt like old times.

She stood behind me and laced up my stays tightly, the way I could never lace them on my own.

When they came home that night the men found me alone in a sort of stupor. First they were anxious, to hear my breath come so quick and shallow, and then they were angry, to see the turnips curling on the table and no food in the pot. They said my stepmother had to be a sorceress, to find me so deep in the forest.

Some weeks went by and I was myself again, scrubbing and mashing and earning my keep. The visit began to seem like another on my daydreams.

One afternoon I was resting on a tree stump outside the cottage, snatching a moment of sun on my back, when I heard the jangle of her harness. This time, she knelt beside me, and there was nothing of the queen about her. I haven’t had a night’s sleep since you left, she said; it feels like dancing in shoes of red hot iron. Will you come home now?

I said, No, and turned my head away. She took out her jeweled comb and began to draw it through my hair, patient with all the burrs and knots my new life had put in it. I shut my eyes and let the points of the comb dig into my scalp, scraping down to the kernel of memory.

When they came home that night the men found me curled around the tree stump on the damp grass. They lifted me up and told me that my stepmother must be a witch to put such poison of idleness in my head. They warned me to stay inside and shut the doors to all comers.

For some weeks I did as I was told, kept house, kept quiet. My hair knotted again, my stays hung loose.

But one afternoon in early autumn I was troubled by a whiff of a scent of overpowering sharpness. I could not remember what it was; all I knew was that I could hardly stand it. I turned, and there at the half door my stepmother stood, an apple in her upturned hand.

Stepmother, yes, that was the word, but there was nothing of the mother about her.

The apple was half ripe. One side was green, the other red. She bit into the green side and swallowed and smiled. I took the apple from her without a word, bit into the red side, and began to choke.

Fear and excitement locked in struggle in my throat, and blackness seeped across my eyes. I fell to the ground.

It was all white, where I went; like warm snow, packed into the angles and crevices of my body. There was no light, or noise, or color. I thought I was treasure, stowed away for safekeeping.

When I came to I was jolting along in an open coffin. Sunlight stabbed my eyelids. The woodsmen were bearing me down the mountain, out of the woods. I gagged, coughed, sat up. How their eyes rounded; how they laughed to see me breathing. But lie down, one said, you are not well yet. Until you were poisoned we had been forgetting who you are, said another; now we’re taking you to another kingdom, where they’ll know how to treat a princess. Lie down and rest, little one, said a third; we have a long way to go.

My head was still swimming; I thought I might faint again. But my mouth was full of apple, slippery, still hard, vinegary at the edges. I could feel the marks of my own teeth on the skin. I bit down, and juice ran to the corners of my lips. It was not poisoned.

It was the first apple of the year from my father’s orchard. I chewed till it was eaten up and I knew what to do.

I made them set me down, and I got out the box, deaf to their clamor. I stared around me till I could see the castle, tiny against the flame-colored forest, away up the hill. I turned my face toward it, and started walking.

In the orchard, I asked,

Who were you before you married my father?

And she said, Will I tell you my own story?

It is a tale of a handkerchief.

THE TALE OF THE HANDKERCHIEF

The reason I would have killed you to stay a queen is that I have no right to be a queen. I have been a fraud from the beginning.

I was born a maid, daughter to a maid, in the court of a widow far across the mountains. How could you, a pampered princess, know what it’s like to be a servant, a pair of hands, a household object?

To be no one, to own nothing, to owe every last mouthful to those you serve?

All our queen loved in the world was her horse and her daughter.

The horse was white, a magnificent mare with a neck like an oak.

The princess was born in the same month of the same year as I was. But where I was dark, with thick brows that overshadowed my bright eyes, the princess was fair. Yellowish, I thought her; slightly transparent, as if the sun had never seen her face. All she liked to do was walk in the garden, up and down the shady paths between the hedges. Once when I was picking nettles for soup, I saw her stumble on the gravel and bruise her knee. The queen ran into the garden at the first cry, lifted her onto her lap and wiped two jeweled tears away with her white handkerchief. Another time I was scrubbing a hearth and stood up to stretch my back, when laughter floated through the open window. I caught sight of the two of them cantering past on the queen’s horse, their hands dancing in its snowy mane.

My own mother died young and tired, having made me promise to be a good maid for the rest of my days. I kissed her waxy forehead and knew that I would break my word.

But for the moment I worked hard, kept my head low and my apron clean. At last I was raised to the position of maid to the princess. Telling me of my good fortune, the queen rested her smooth hand for half a moment on my shoulder. If your only knew, she said, how it would gladden her heart.

The young princess was a gentle mistress, never having needed to be anything else. The year she came of age, the queen received ambassadors from all the neighboring kingdoms. The prince she chose for her daughter lived a long day’s ride away. He was said to be young enough. The girl said neither yes nor no; it was not her question to answer. She stood very still as I tried the bridal dresses on her for size. My hands looked like hen’s claws against the shining brocade. The queen told her daughter not to be sad, never to be willful, and always to remember her royal blood. I listened, my mouth full of pins.

If I had had such a mother I would never have left her to journey into strange country. I would have fought and screamed and clung to the folds of her cloak. But then, my blood is not royal.

Ahead of her daughter the queen sent gold and silver and a box full of crystals. She took the princess into the chamber where I was packing furs, and there she took out her knife and pressed the point into her own finger. I could hardly believe it; I almost cried out to stop her. The queen let three drops of blood fall onto her lawn handkerchief. She tucked this into the girl’s bosom, saying that as long as she kept the handkerchief, she could come to no great harm.

And then the queen led her daughter out into the courtyard, and swung her up onto her own great horse. I would come with you myself, she said, if only my kingdom were secure. In these troubled times you will be safer where you’re going. In my place, you will have my own horse to carry you, and your own maid to ride behind you.

This was the first I had heard of it. I went to pack my clean linen.

The rest of my bits and pieces I left under the mattress for the next maid; I had nothing worth taking into a far country. In the courtyard, a stableman hoisted me onto a nag weighed down with all the princess’s paraphernalia.

I watched the queen and the princess kiss good-bye in the early-morning sunlight. The horse’s mane shone like a torch, but where the mother’s forehead rested against the daughter’s, the sun behind them was blotted out.

We trotted along for some hours without speaking; the princess seemed lost in daydreams, and my mother had taught me never to be the first to break a silence. The day grew hotter as the sun crawled up the sky. Sweat began to break through the princess’s white throat, trickling down the neck of her heavy gold dress. My thin smock was scorching through.

Suddenly there was a glint in the trees. The princess brought her great white horse to a halt and said, without looking at me, Please fill my golden cup with some cool water from that stream.

The heat in my head was a hammer on an anvil, pounding a sword into shape. It was the first order I had ever disobeyed in my life.

If you’re thirsty, I told her, get it yourself.

The princess turned her milky face and stared at me. When my eyes refused to fall she climbed down, a little awkwardly, and untied her cup. She pulled back her veil as she walked to the stream. I was thirsty myself, but I didn’t move. The white horse looked round at me with its long eyes that seemed to say, If her mother only knew, it would break her heart. When the princess walked back from the stream, her mouth was wet and her cheeks were pale.

We rode on for several hours until the sun was beginning to sink.

The princess reined in at the edge of a river and asked me again, more shyly, if I would fetch her some water. I did mean to say yes this time, now that I had taught her a lesson; I was not plotting anything. But when I opened my mouth the sound that came out was No. If you want to drink, I said hoarsely, you have to stoop down for it.

I held her gaze until her eyes fell. She got down and stepped through the rushes to the water. The horse tossed its foam-colored head and neighed as if warning of an enemy approach. My lips were cracked; my tongue rasped against them as I watched the princess. She bent over the stream to fill her cup, and something fluttered from the curve of her breast into the water. My handkerchief, she cried, as it slid away. As if saying what is was would bring it back.

With that I leapt down from my knock-kneed horse and waded into the river. I found the square of linen caught in a knot of reeds, mud silting over the three brown drops. I turned and shook it in the princess’s face. A drop of water caught on her golden sleeve.

You know nothing, I told her. Do you even know how to wash a handkerchief?

She shook her head. Her face was marked with red, like faint lines on a map.

You scrub it on a rock like this, I told her, and scrub again, and scrub harder, and keep scrubbing until your fingers are numb.

Look, the spots are coming out. Your mother’s royal blood is nearly gone.

The princess made a small moan.

Look, there are only three faint marks left, I said. And then you find somewhere off the ground and leave it to bleach in the sun, I instructed her, tossing the handkerchief up into the high branches of tree.

The princess’s eyes left the handkerchief and came back. Hers was the look of the rabbit, and it brought out all the snake in me. Take off your dress, I told her.

She blinked.

Take off your dress or I’ll strip it from your body with my bare hands.

She reached behind to unfasten the hooks. I didn’t help. I watched. Then I slipped my own plain dress over my head. The air felt silken on my shoulders. The dresses lay crumpled at our feet like snakeskins. Look, I said. Where is the difference between us now?

The princess had no answer.

I picked up the golden cup and filled it form the stream. I drank until my throat hurt. I splashed my face and arm and breasts until I shivered despite the sun. Then I stepped into the stiff golden dress and turned my back on the girl. After a moment she understood, and began to do up the hooks and eyes. When she was finished, she hesitated, then pulled on the smock I had left in a heap by the rushes. It suited her. Her fair hair hung around her dry lips. I filled the cup again and passed it to her. She drank without a word.

When I got onto the white horse, it reared under me, and I had to give it a kick to make it stand still. I waited until I could hear the girl settling in the saddle of the old nag, and then I wheeled around. I am the queen’s daughter, I told her, and you are my maid, and if you say otherwise I will rip your throat open with my bare hands.

Her eyes slid down to my finger. The skin was angry, with calluses on the thumbs; anyone who saw it would know. I rummaged around in the saddlebag until I found a pair of white gloves and pulled them on. The girl was looking away. I moved my great horse alongside hers until I was so close I could have struck her. Swear by the open sky, I whispered, that you will never tell anyone what has happened by this river.

I swear by the open sky, she repeated doubtfully, raising her eyes to it.

We rode on. The gold dress was heavier than I could have imagined. My bones felt as if they had been made to bear this burden as if they had found their one true dress at last.

It was dark by the time we reached the palace. They had lit a double row of torches for us to follow. The prince came to the foot of the steps and lifted me down form my horse. Through the hard brocade I couldn’t feel whether he was warm or cold. He was pale with nerves, but he had a kind face. At the top of the steps I made him put me down. I said, The maid I brought with me.

Yes, his voice was thin but not unpleasant.

She does not now anything about waiting on ladies. Could you set her to some simpler task?

Perhaps she could mind the geese, suggested the prince.

I gave a single nod and walked beside him toward the great doors.

My back prickled. If the girl was going to denounce me this would be the moment for it. But I heard nothing except the clinking harnesses as they led the horses away.

I found that I knew how to behave like a princess, from my short lifetime of watching. I snapped my fan; I offered my gloved hand to be kissed; I never bent my back. At times, I forgot for a moment that I was acting.

But I never forgot to be afraid. I had wanted to be married at once, but the pace of royal life is stately. There were pigs to be fattened, spices to wait for, the king and his army to come safely home. I was given a broad chamber with a view of the city arch and all the fields beyond.

The first week slid by. The goose girl seemed to go about her duties without a word. I had never eaten such good food in my life, but my stomach was a knotted rope. Every day I made some excuse to pass by the stable and catch a glimpse of the great white horse in its box. Its eyes grew longer as they fixed on me; if the queen her mother only knew, they seemed to say.

I became convinced it was the horse who would betray me. It was not scared the way the goose girl was. In the dreams that came to ride me in my gilt feather bed, the horse drew pictures in the mud under the city arch with its hoof, illustrating my crime for all the court to see. Sometimes it spoke aloud in my head, its voice a deep whistle, telling all it knew. I woke with my knees under my chin, as if I were packed in a barrel, as we punish thieves in the mountains. That evening at dinner I said to my pale fiancé, That brute of a horse I rode here tried to throw me on the journey.

Then we will have it destroyed, he assured me.

His eyes were devoted, the shape of almonds. He looked as if he would believe every word that slipped from my mouth.

The next day, I passed by the stableyard, and the box was empty.

Back in my chamber, I threw the window open to the delicate air.

My eye caught sight of something bright, nailed to the city arch.

Something in the shape of a horse’s head. Below it stood a girl, geese clacking at her skirts. From this distance I couldn’t be sure if her lips were moving.

She must have bribed the knacker to save the horse’s head and nail it up where she would pass by. She must have guessed the exact shape of my fears. I watched her make her way through the arch and out into the open fields.

Another week crawled by. Every day I looked out for the girl pausing under the arch with her noisy flock, and tried to read her face. I wore my finest dresses, but my heart was drumming under their weight. I kept my white gloves buttoned, even on the hottest days.

I began to worry that the queen might come to the wedding after all, as a surprise for her daughter, despite the danger of leaving her kingdom unguarded. In the dreams that lined up along my bed, the queen pointed at me across the royal dining table and slapped the crown form my head. She ripped the glove from my hand and held up my finger, pressing it to the point of her knife, till dark drops stained the tablecloth: See, she cried, there is nothing royal about this blood, common as dirt. When I woke doubled up, I felt as if they were driving long spikes through the side of the barrel, into my skin.

One day I heard that a messenger had come from the kingdom of my birth. I couldn’t get to him before the prince did. I sat in my chamber, waiting for the heavy tramp of the guards. But the step, when it came at last, was soft. The prince said, The queen your mother has fallen in battle.

So she will not be coming to the wedding? I asked, and only then understood his words. I bent over to hide my face from him; his gentle eyes shamed me. I hoped my laughter would sound like tears. And then the tears did come, and I hoped they were for her, a queen dead in her prime, and not just for my own treacherous self.

I don’t know who told the goose girl. I hadn’t the courage. I suppose she heard it in the kitchen, or from a goose boy. I thought that the moment she would run through the court to denounce me.

But the next morning she was standing under the arch in the usual way, her face turned up as if in conversation with the rotting head above her. She paused no longer than usual before walking her flock into the fields.

The day before the wedding I rode out into the country. I found myself near the river where it all began, this fantastical charade. I stopped beside the bank, and there in the tree above my head was a flash of white.

I had to take off my dress to climb, or I would have got stuck in the branches. The tree left red lashes on my arms and thighs. At last my hand reached the handkerchief. It was washed through by the dew and bleached stiff by the sun, but there were still three faint brown marks.

I saw then that the end was coming. When I had dressed myself I rode straight for the fields around the castle to find the goose girl.

All at once I knew it would be tonight she would tell them; she was waiting till the last minute, so my hopes would be at their highest just before the guards came to take me away to a walled-up, windowless room.

There she was with the breeze blowing her yellow hair out of its bonds and across her sunburnt face. I rode up to her, then jumped down. I held out the handkerchief; my hand was shaking. It still bears the marks of your mother’s royal blood, I told her. If I give it to you now, will you let me run away before you tell them?

She tucked the handkerchief into her rough dress and said, Tell what?

I stared at her. Your fear of me will die away, I said. Your need to speak the truth will swell within you. You will be overheard lamenting as you sleep beside the stove; you will confide in the reeds and they will sing it back.

Her eyes flicked upward. She said, By the open sky, I swear I will never tell what is not true.

But you are the royal princess, I reminded her.

A little time passed before she spoke. No, she said, I don’t think so, not anymore. The horse helped me to understand.

What?

When it was alive, it seemed to be a proud and stern horse, she said. After you had it killed, I could hear it talking in my head, and what it had to say surprised me.

My mouth was hanging open.

I’ve grown accustomed to this life, the goose girl went on. I have found the fields are wider than any garden. I was always nervous, when I was a princess, in case I would forget what to do. You fit the dresses better; you carry it off.

My mouth was dry; I shut it. I could hardly believe her words, this unlooked for reprieve. If your mother only knew, I protested, it would break her heart.

My mother is dead, said the girl, and she knows everything now.

As I heard her, the barrel I felt always about my ribs seemed to crack open, its hoops ringing about my feet. I could breathe. I could stretch.

That night at dinner the prince filled my goblet with the best wine, and I gave him a regal smile. He had very clean fingernails, and the blue pallor of true royalty. He was all I needed. Perhaps I would even grow to love him in the end, once I was truly safe; stranger things had happened. Once I had the crown settled on my head and a baby or two on my lap, who knew what kind of woman I might turn out to be? That night I slept deep and dreamless.

During the wedding, my mind wandered. I looked out the chapel window, onto the rooftops. From here I couldn’t see the city arch, or the wide yellow fields. I wondered how the goose girl had felt when she heard the wedding bells. I thought of how both of us had refused to follow the paths mapped out for us by our mothers and their mothers before them, but had perversely gone our own ways instead, and I wondered whether this would bring us more or less happiness in the end.

Then I heard a tiny cough. When the prince took his lace handkerchief away from his mouth, there was a spatter of blood on it. I gave my husband a proper, searching look for the first time. I saw the red rims of his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. Once more I seemed to feel the barrel locked around me, the spikes hammering through. I knew if I was not with child in a month or two, I would have nothing to hold on to. The day after my husband’s funeral I would be wandering the world again in search of a crown I could call my own.

Passing one day under the arch,

I looked up and asked of the grin of bone, Who were you

before a queen chose you as her horse?

And the horse said,

Will I tell you my own story?

It is a tale of hair.