The Fairest of Them All (18 page)

I smiled. “Is it not?”

He took my hand again, and we kept walking. Above us, chandeliers swayed and glittered. “Well,”
he said. “This was once the greatest court in the world and the most powerful kingdom. We had land that stretched from ocean to ocean, a ferocious army, loyal allies. This court once produced the most magnificent poetry and art and theater. My family’s line, the Chauvins, we have fallen very far from what we once were.”

His voice shook as we spoke, his passion evident. It was impossible not to
be swept up in it, and suddenly I, too, longed for a lost past, one greater than my own, with its ravenous mothers and magical plants.

“I think that’s what Mathena spoke about, when she said
that many in the kingdom hope for that kind of greatness again.”

“Yes,” he said. “Many of us hope for that. I was raised hearing stories of that time. My tutors taught me all the history, made me read the
great epics recounting the most famous battles. Did you not study these things?”

I shrugged. “Mathena told me many great stories and myths, but not often ones about the kingdom.”

“That’s all right. You can leave the past to me. I want you to think only of right now. Forget everything that came before.”

I studied him, wondering if he knew about the rapunzel, or anything else from my past, and
then realized he was talking about a different one: the past in which he’d left me in the tower and married Teresa instead.

“All right,” I said. “There is a plant for that, you know. One that will make you forget everything.”

He laughed. “Well, then I will have to procure it for you.”

“It’s all so exciting,” I said, after a moment. “You have such ambition!”

“You will learn the truth of that
statement,” he said. “This kingdom will be great again. Already I’m filling the palace with riches. By the time we die we’ll have surpassed anything that came before us.”

“I hope that will not be for a long time yet,” I said.

We stepped into a massive room filled with workers. The smell of plaster and pigment was overwhelming.

“Look,” he said, pointing up.

There was a scaffold, and on top
of it, a man applying pigment to the ceiling. Sketched across it was a massive work, with full figures and animals and clouds and fields. Only part of it had been painted.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A unicorn hunt,” he said, “designed and painted by one of the world’s masters.”

“That’s him?” I asked.

“Yes, the great Bernard Morel. And these are his helpers and apprentices. I’ve set up a studio
for them here.”

I walked farther in and focused more closely on the ceiling. The flank of the unicorn was already a glowing white, and slowly the scene came to life before me—the hunters lying in wait, the unicorn’s horn stretched out in front of it. The scent of paint fell away and instead I felt as if I’d been transported back into the woods, tracking the magical beast glowing above us. I’d
never imagined such wonders that could be made at the hand of a man. This was its own kind of magic, I realized.

“It’s fantastic,” I said.

Josef called to the artist and asked him to step down and meet me. I trembled with the import of that moment, seeing that someone as talented and blessed as the small, weathered man would bow down before me and call me his queen.

“It is an honor,” I said,
“to meet you and see you work.”

“The honor is mine, Your Grace,” the artist said. “I feel I’m in the presence of a creature even more rare than the mythical unicorn.”

Josef smiled, looking from Bernard to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Perhaps you will paint her portrait when you have finished this room,” Josef said.

“It would be my pleasure.”

I was thrilled, but at the same time hated to think
of myself as one of the faces on those walls, to think of future men and
women standing in front of the canvas and staring at my face, imagining what I’d been like once.

“I have many plans,” Josef said, as we walked back into the hallway. “This is why an heir is so important, to secure the kingdom and the Chauvin line, and to continue to make us great after I’m gone.”

“I do not think that will
be a problem, my king,” I said, smiling up at him.

We continued walking down the hallway, and I discovered that the unicorn ceiling was not the only masterwork in progress. In another room, a man was sculpting a large statue from a block of marble, the figure of a centaur emerging from it. In another, a group of painters was at work on a large altarpiece for the chapel, with winged angels dropping
from the heavens.

“It will do Snow White good,” he said, “to have a brother.”

I thought it was doubtful that she would want a brother surpassing her to the throne, but I kept quiet. “I am sure it will,” I said. “But in the meantime, I will try to be a good mother to her.”

My voice caught, as I said those words. It surprised me, how much I liked the idea.

A
few days later, I arranged a meeting between myself and Snow White in the gardens. It was a glorious
afternoon as I waited for her, after a morning of heavy rain. The gardens were in full bloom. Tall hedges created a labyrinth structure, and paths stretched from every side, lined by herbs and flowers and wonderful trees that looked like hats, draped in bell-shaped white and purple blossoms. My hair was loose and falling on the ground around me, collecting wet grass and petals, the thrum of life
vibrating along the strands. In the distance, mountains rose into the sky. The air smelled of honeysuckle and wet earth.

Snow White appeared at the castle door and I studied her as she approached. She was dressed in a red cloak the same color as her lips. She seemed oddly formal, as usual, a worried look on her face.

“Hello,” I said.

“Your Highness,” she replied, curtsying shyly.

I nodded
to her nurse, who stepped back. Two guards appeared behind her.

“Shall we walk together?” I asked.

She nodded, and we set out side by side. Her back was perfectly straight, her hair braided about her head.

“How old are you?”

“I am seven,” she said.

“And you study a great many things?” I asked.

She looked at me, seeming to find the question confusing. “Yes.”

“What’s your favorite subject?”

There was a long pause before she answered. “I like to study poetry,” she said.

“Oh, like your father.”

“My mother loved poetry,” she said, and she turned her head to look straight at me.

I felt awkward, trying to talk with her. Behind us, her nurse and two guards followed. In front of us, the world opened into a series of manicured gardens.

“Did she?” I asked. “And you? You are a lover of
poetry?”

“Yes. And I sing, and can dance. I would like to write poetry, like my mother.”

“Your mother was a very talented woman.”

“I know. Is it true you are a witch?”

I stopped, and was unable to hide my surprise. “What did you say?”

She stared right up at me, unafraid, her eyes so blue they were nearly lavender. “Is it true you are a witch?”

“Who told you that?”

She shrugged. “I have
heard people speak of it. They say my father has gone mad.”

“Do you think he’s gone mad?”

She seemed to seriously consider the question. “He was very upset when my mother died.”

“Of course he was. I’m sure everyone was. It must have been very devastating for you.”

She nodded, and suddenly looked as if she were about to cry. Her sadness already weighed on me too heavily, so strong it was already
latching itself onto my hair, moving into me. I desperately did not want her to cry.

“Look, some elderberries,” I said quickly, pointing to bunches of the dark berries. “Do you know what these can be used for?”

“No.” She stepped closer to me, looked down at them intently. She plucked a berry from the plant and rolled it between her fingers. “I think the cooks make jam with them.”

“They can
also help cure someone sick from influenza, when they’re mashed and used in a tea. That’s what people mean, when they say witch. I know how plants can help us.”

She stared up at me with a wondering expression. “What about this?” she asked, pointing to a thick plant with yellow blossoms nearby.

I made sure no one was looking, and pulled off a leaf.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

She did, her eyelashes
like brushes against her pale cheeks.

“When I rub this leaf against your eyelid, you’ll see the face of the man you’re meant to marry.”

I swept the leaf over her eyelids, and she gasped, blinked her eyes open.

“And who did you see?” I asked.

“My cousin!” she said.

“Oh?”

She furrowed her brow. “I do not think I would like to marry him.”

I laughed. “Perhaps not,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“In the East.” A shadow moved over her face, and I was determined to remove it.

“It’s not always accurate,” I said. “Sometimes the plant likes to play tricks on people, especially young girls.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” I said. I put a finger over my lips. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“I want to do it again,” she said, excited, and for the first time a genuine smile lit up her face, and I was astonished
at how wonderful it felt to make her happy.

I plucked off another leaf. She closed her eyes, and I swept the leaf over them.

She frowned and looked up at me. “I still see my cousin!” she said, stamping her feet. “Those plants are mean.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe your cousin will grow up to be a very dashing man.”

“He is already grown!” she said. “He is the age of my father.”

I burst out laughing,
despite myself. “I’m sure the plants are having fun with you, then. You will marry a very handsome man.”

“Maybe I’ll never marry. Maybe I’ll write poetry in my room.”

“Forever?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at me.

I smiled back, delighted at the change in her, and pointed again. “There’s poison in this plant.”

“There is? Is it dangerous?”

“Only if you eat it, but the most poisonous part is in
the ground. They say that slaves used to eat very tiny bits of it so that they’d be too sick to work.”

“But is it magic?”

“I don’t know. Is that magic?”

She furrowed up her face again. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either,” I said. “It’s just how things work.”

“And that?” she asked, pointing to another plant.

“That will cure eye aches, if you boil it and put it over your lids.”

“I will
not see my cousin again if I do that, will I?”

I laughed. “I hope not! If you do, I might begin to wonder if you do not love him, despite all your protestations!”

She made a horrified face. “You tease me!” she said, like a child not at all used to being teased. She rushed ahead, full of energy now, practically jumping up and down. “And that one?” She pointed.

“This one is very special,” I said.
I plucked off a blossom and handed it to her. “This one will make you have very special dreams, when you put it under your pillow.”

“What kind of dreams?” Her eyes were large as she stared at me, her face wide open.

“Happy ones, of the most beautiful places.”

“I would like that,” she said. “Do you think I might dream of my mother in heaven?”

“I . . . I think so,” I stammered, taken aback.
Her longing was so intense, and it was no different from what I’d felt almost every day in the forest from the women who came to see us. “Put the blossom under your pillow and see.”

“All right,” she said. My heart nearly broke as she carefully folded the blossom into her palm. “You can also change people into animals, can’t you?”

“Is that what people say?”

She nodded. “They say it happened
before.”

“Well, people like to tell stories, you know. There are many, many wonders in this world.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Everyone at court likes to talk.”

“You do not?”

She squinted up at the sky. “I think it’s silly sometimes, the things people talk about. I like to read and play music and dance.”

“What about now? Do you like talking with me?”

“Yes. You aren’t like other people.”

“Neither are you.”

For a moment we looked at each other. Had things been different, she might have been my own daughter. I wished, more than anything, at that instant, that she was, that none of the rest of it had ever happened and it had only been me, and her, and him, this whole time. And then, as if it were the most natural thing, she reached up and took my hand. I held on to it carefully,
as if it were made of glass.

“It’s pretty here,” she said. I followed her gaze. Around us stretched the gardens’ never-ending pathways. “I like knowing that these plants can do so many things.”

“It’s important to know what they can do,” I said. “You could walk right through this garden and have no idea. And all the while, the plants are scheming and plotting.”

“Now I know their secrets,” she
said.

In the near distance a large structure appeared, like some kind of house. “What’s there?” I pointed.