Rescuing Rapunzel (6 page)

“I do not think it will be as simple as all that,” Nick answered. “First, I am willing to bet the girl has been shut in that tower most, if not all, her life. I cannot imagine three grown men breaking into her home will accomplish anything other than terrifying her.” Nick ran his hands through his hair. “Then, women who are beaten tend to be fiercely loyal to their masters.” He glanced at Bryan.

Bryan nodded. “She will fight you. Possibly try to return.”

“Which will only make her situation worse.” Nick tapped his finger on the table. “We must approach her cautiously. Persuade, instead of force.”

And they could all be wrong–she could fling herself into his arms and beg to be whisked away to freedom.

Nick hoped as much, anyway.

“So we will take it slow,” said Bryan. “Where do we start?”

“Tomorrow, we determine the best way in and out,” Penn said.

Bryan nodded. “First light?”

The other two nodded.

“Meet here,” Nick said.

“Yes, sir,” Penn said, then glanced at the red-haired barmaid. “It seems I will be requiring a room tonight after all.”

She blushed, but her eyes were dark with knowing.

Nick rolled his eyes.

Chapter 9

Mother and I broke our fast early and she gave me new cloth to sew a dress–good quality yellow and green fabric and a wide assortment of laces and ribbons to accent the dress. She said it was to keep me entertained while she was gone–for I would need a vivid new dress in order to receive the present she was heading out to acquire.

I ran my fingers over the fabrics, part of me wishing the greens were blues, but I said nothing, for it was a fine gift. “Will you be gone long?”

“No longer than usual,” she replied as she moved about the room, picking up items here and there and putting them in the bag she carried on her shoulder.

She seemed agitated, her movements jerky, and she whispered under her breath.

“Is there anything I can do while you are gone?”

“No,” she said. Then paused, tipping her head to the side, and stared at me with a very strange expression, one that gave me a shiver.

“There is one thing…” she said.

She walked toward the storeroom she used to mix and store her potions. There was a cabinet opposite the door, a small table on the left, and the walls were lined with jar-laden shelves.

I hated going into the storeroom. It was so tiny I could not bring all my hair into the room. The overwhelming aroma of the many herbs had seeped into the walls, and it gave me a headache if I stayed too long, but I followed her inside anyway. I almost bumped into Mother as she came to a stop just past the center of the slim, rectangular room.

“Here it is,” she said, gesturing to the cabinet.

I stared in wonder as she pulled on the heavy piece of furniture. I went forward to help, but Mother waved me back and continued until she had moved the cabinet away from the wall.

There was a door.

“What is that?” I whispered. My heart thundered in my chest. How could there be a hidden door?

“It is a door to the stairs.”

I inhaled a breath. There were stairs out of the tower?

Mother glared at me, her hand on her hip. “Do not look so surprised. How do you think I got in and out when you were a child?” She turned to the door. “It is very stiff, but it can be opened.” She tugged on it, so hard in fact that when the door opened–with a horrible scraping sound that rattled my teeth–she stumbled backward into me.

I caught her in my arms and she righted herself. The door had opened enough to let a single person through and, in the dimness, I could make out stairs. Very dusty, very worn stairs. I blinked, trying to bring the room into focus, but the dust spinning in the air obscured everything.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“If someone does manage to get into the tower, you have a way to get out.” She stabbed one long, bony finger in my face. “It is an escape, no more, no less. The stairs are old and worn. One misstep and they will break under you.” She pressed on one with her toe. The wood crackled under her foot and little shavings came off the edge, illustrating their fragility.

It sent shivers down my spine.

“They may only stand one trip down,” she said. And again, she brought her bony finger to my face. “You need not concern yourself with them unless your life is in peril. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Do you understand?” She grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

“Y-yes…Mother.”

She released me. “Good.” She gestured for me to leave the room. I backed out, tugging my hair with me, my heart hammering in my chest. Mother followed me, shutting the door behind her.

As she walked through the rest of the tower, picking up the bag she had packed for her journey, she muttered to herself. “There is something afoot in the woods. I can feel it in my bones.” She did not look at me as she fastened her robe, tucking her hair into the hood as she pulled it over her head. “I cannot lose now, not at this point. The hardest part is finished.”

“What hardest part, Mother?” I asked, stepping to her side.

She snapped her eyes to mine, as if she had not even remembered I was in the room. “Do not concern yourself.” She gestured to the fabrics she had given me. “Make the best dress you know how to make, for you will be presented after I return.”

“Presented, Mother? Presented for what?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Do not pester me with questions! Do as I say.”

“Yes Mother,” I replied, looking at the floor.

Mother walked to the window, picked up a section of my hair and tossed it out–dragging me, stumbling, to the window.

Mother climbed halfway out the window, but paused on the sill. “Remember, girl. Practice your dagger. The Black Forest is gaining in treachery. Be prepared for danger.” She glanced behind her, into the woods. “Something is coming. And it will not benefit us if it finds us.” She turned and looked at me. “Be vigilant!”

“Yes, Mother.”

I gripped the sill as Mother climbed down. My fingers dug into the wood of the window sill as she worked her way down. I rubbed my brow, considering everything she had said. What could Mother possibly be fetching that I needed a new dress for?

I hauled my hair back inside and let it pile by the window. While there was no way to answer those questions until Mother returned, one thing was clear. I had to make a dress. I set to work immediately. Working would take my mind off what Mother had shown me.

Stairs.

The shape of them rose, dusty and unbidden, in my mind, much as I tried to ignore them. Why were they there? And, worse, why had Mother revealed them now? I had been alone in this tower most of my life. Even as a young girl, Mother had felt safe leaving me alone here. What had changed? What was this danger she feared?

If someone came into the tower, intent on doing harm, could I use the stairs? Even if I did, where would I go? How would I travel? Even here in the tower, my hair was often an obstacle to movement. Out there? I could never walk through the woods and the hair was far too heavy to carry. Cutting it off was out of the question as well.

If someone breached the walls and climbed the tower, I would be trapped here with them.

I knelt on the floor by my bed. I could see the hilt of the dagger under my pillow. It really would be left for me to defend myself, because on the ground I would never survive.

I ran a hand over my face, rubbing my eyes as if that would erase the memory of the door.

But even out of the corner of my eye, I could see the storeroom and I knew, beyond that, lay the door. I repressed a shudder, and forced myself to look at the material Mother had given me.

“Yellow and green,” I said, attempting to take my focus away from that door and its temptation. A door that led to the ground was both the most amazing and the most devilish thing she could have shown me.

A way to reach the ground. But, like everything with Mother, there was a price. If I went down, I would never be able to come back up.

“Yellow and green,” I said, again trying to center my focus. “I would have preferred blue. But in fairness, the cloth is fine quality.”

The ribbons were of good material as well, and beautifully patterned.

I arranged the cloth–the yellow underneath the dark green–and laid a few ribbons atop them.

Yes. The yellow would make a lovely blouse, trimmed with this green ribbon.

“And the green, a heavy corset and skirt, trimmed with…” I rifled through the ribbons. “This yellow ribbon.”

Yes. A lovely match.

I stood, pacing around the fabric on the floor–judging them from a distance, trying to envision the pieces so I could cut them.

I hummed, letting the music inspire my work.

I made sure my back was to the storeroom door.

Chapter 10

What a sight they must have made, Nick mused. The Charming Nobles, the three most eligible bachelors in the White Mountains, sitting in a tree, staring at a tower in the middle of the Black Forest.

They had been in their perches since just after first light. Though, so far, all they had to show for their efforts was a glimpse of the two women, one of whom Nick could only assume was Rapunzel, bustling about.

“It is good I am not a sentry,” Penn said. “This is utterly boring.”

“Someone must–” Nick froze when a long golden rope fell from the window atop the tower.

“Look.” Nick nudged Penn.

“At last,” Penn sighed. “I was ready to sell Bryan for some ale.”

Bryan hushed them. “Someone is coming.”

A woman emerged from the window, bag slung over her shoulder, and climbed down. They would not be able to see her when she hit the ground but their perch gave them enough of a vantage point to see where she came out.

If she emerged from this side of the tower.

Nick held his breath, listening for her footsteps inside the wall, trying to gauge where she would appear.

Then a groan of old, worn hinges echoed and the woman emerged through a door around the curve of the wall to their left. She turned, straining to push the door shut, which she eventually did, making a harsh crunch.

She turned away from the wall and headed off into the woods with very sure steps.

“Bryan,” Nick said, “can you follow her?”

Stopping only to give Nick a scathing look, Bryan headed for his horse. In a moment, he was off, following the woman almost silently through the woods.

“How does he do that?” Penn muttered.

Nick shook his head. “I know not.”

“Well, she is alone now.” Penn gestured to the tower.

Nick nodded and tipped his head to the side, glancing back at the window. The girl was there, pulling the rope inside. Her mouth moved and soft words echoed in the air, mutterings about a dress and fabric.

As she pulled the last of the rope inside, she put her hands on her hips. “I suppose I should get to work.” She turned away from the window, going deeper into the room. Her voice still tumbled down though much less clearly.

“So she is a loon,” Penn said, after a few more snippets of words slipped to them.

Nick glared at his friend. “Have you never spoken to yourself when alone?”

Penn grinned. “Never been one for being alone.”

Nick did not dignify that with a response.

He had to see if Rapunzel was, as Penn predicted, not in her right mind, or if she was merely a girl in a bad situation. To see if she would allow him to help her.

“I have to get in there,” he said, his chest tight with apprehension.

What if she did not want to go with him?

“And that is the rub,” Penn said, adjusting his perch, making the tree branch groan and the leaves shudder. “Getting up there is the most important part. How are you going to do that?”

“Call to her.” Nick climbed down the tree and was on the ground before Penn, heading for the wall and looking for the opening the woman had come through. Perhaps inside the wall, he would find another route into the tower.

Twigs crackled and bushes snapped as Penn joined him, following the wall.

When Nick came to the section opposite their earlier hiding spot, he ran his hands over the wall and pushed it in places, looking for the concealed entrance. Nothing happened. He was beginning to lose hope, when he shoved and the wall swung open , depositing him on his rump on the other side.

When Nick glanced up, Penn was applauding him, as any true friend would when one fell on one’s arse. He struggled to his feet and dusted himself off, giving himself time to let his cheeks cool. When he was as clean and composed as he was going to get, he joined Penn on the other side of the wall.

“Amazing painting on this wood,” Penn said, running his hand over the door. He pushed it back and forth, making the joints screech. Nick stopped him, for the noise echoed in the open space and grated on already raw nerves. Though made of wood, it had been so cunningly painted it seemed constructed of stone and blended almost seamlessly with the rest of the wall.