where he shivered uncontrollably. “Cold in here,” said Erik. “I’ll make a fire.”
He nodded, but the guard had already turned away. Every muscle in his body shook; his mind balanced on the edge of delirium. He hoped Rollins would not be long. His wish was granted.
“What is this blasphemy?” The short, well-dressed man hollered from the doorway; had Rollins’s voice always been so loud and slurring? The prince summoned the last of his strength and began the speech he had practiced on the road. “There is a ... man. Haycart in”—damn teeth needed to stop chattering—“rain. Will address the king. Com ... compensate him.”
Rollins snapped to attention. “Yes,Your Highness.”
“Announce. Ball. Every young woman ... in the land. Th-three...” He wasn’t sure if his voice or his breath left him first.
“Three balls or three days hence, sire?”
His forehead broke out in a sweat from the effort of staying upright and keeping his words coherent. “Both. Also, send ... missive. M-moneylenders.” Rollins came forward, and the prince mumbled the details in as few syllables as could be managed. Rollins nodded, bowed, and backed toward the door. “As you wish, sire. Right away, sire.”
“Rollins.” His manservant stopped. The prince took a deep breath, concentrating on the importance of stringing the last of his scattered thoughts together. “Please tell Father ... I’ve returned.”
Rollins bowed once more, smiling. “It’s good to have you back, sire.”
Rumbold let the sentiment sink through his mind. Back. He was back. Spent, he collapsed onto the silk sheets, wavering in and out of consciousness. He heard Erik’s deep baritone issue from where he crouched over the fireplace, coaxing a blaze out of the old logs.
“Well, well, well. This ought to be interesting.”
5. Wicked
S UNDAY AWOKE to a poke in the side and opened her eyes to see her mother looming over her. The raging storm had sent them all to bed early. To Mama, that meant her family should wake all the sooner. Seven Woodcutter had never been the soft, warm, cookie-baking type of mother. She had always been more of a “spoil the rod” sort. At least she wasn’t using the rod on her children. Much. Anymore.
Sunday felt the familiar rustle of pages under her cheek; she had fallen asleep writing again. Her gaze flew to the candlestick on the bedside table and the small stub of candle there. Dear, good Friday must have snuffed it out. Sunday always received a severe tongue-lashing—sometimes more—whenever Mama discovered a candle burned down to the quick, for it was irrefutable proof that at least some of it had been wasted.
Beside the candlestick were the fairy stones and Grumble’s shiny golden ball. When Sunday had presented it to her family, Mama’s only comment was that Sunday had best not get too attached to the bauble. It would have to be spent immediately to cover the loss of the cow.
Despite Mama’s penny-pinching, Sunday suspected that all the gold in the world would not make her happy. She wondered what might. She wondered if her mother had ever been happy. If so, she wished she had been alive to see it.
Another poke.
“There’s been a Proclamation,” Mama said by way of explanation.
Sunday groaned. Royal Proclamations usually meant more work, less food, and the loss of something they had previously taken for granted.
“Prince Rumbold is hosting three balls.”
The prince whose evil fairy godmother had ruined her family forever. The suddenly reclusive prince who had been reported ill, missing, dead, or all three over the past several months, and who had evidently been restored to health, rescued, and/or resurrected. Whatever the true story, the spirit had apparently moved His Annoying Highness to throw a ball or three, so he was pretentious enough to announce them to the countryside like anyone cared a fig.
“Good for Prince Rumbold.” Sunday rolled over. Her soft pillow smelled deliciously of
He nodded, but the guard had already turned away. Every muscle in his body shook; his mind balanced on the edge of delirium. He hoped Rollins would not be long. His wish was granted.
“What is this blasphemy?” The short, well-dressed man hollered from the doorway; had Rollins’s voice always been so loud and slurring? The prince summoned the last of his strength and began the speech he had practiced on the road. “There is a ... man. Haycart in”—damn teeth needed to stop chattering—“rain. Will address the king. Com ... compensate him.”
Rollins snapped to attention. “Yes,Your Highness.”
“Announce. Ball. Every young woman ... in the land. Th-three...” He wasn’t sure if his voice or his breath left him first.
“Three balls or three days hence, sire?”
His forehead broke out in a sweat from the effort of staying upright and keeping his words coherent. “Both. Also, send ... missive. M-moneylenders.” Rollins came forward, and the prince mumbled the details in as few syllables as could be managed. Rollins nodded, bowed, and backed toward the door. “As you wish, sire. Right away, sire.”
“Rollins.” His manservant stopped. The prince took a deep breath, concentrating on the importance of stringing the last of his scattered thoughts together. “Please tell Father ... I’ve returned.”
Rollins bowed once more, smiling. “It’s good to have you back, sire.”
Rumbold let the sentiment sink through his mind. Back. He was back. Spent, he collapsed onto the silk sheets, wavering in and out of consciousness. He heard Erik’s deep baritone issue from where he crouched over the fireplace, coaxing a blaze out of the old logs.
“Well, well, well. This ought to be interesting.”
5. Wicked
S UNDAY AWOKE to a poke in the side and opened her eyes to see her mother looming over her. The raging storm had sent them all to bed early. To Mama, that meant her family should wake all the sooner. Seven Woodcutter had never been the soft, warm, cookie-baking type of mother. She had always been more of a “spoil the rod” sort. At least she wasn’t using the rod on her children. Much. Anymore.
Sunday felt the familiar rustle of pages under her cheek; she had fallen asleep writing again. Her gaze flew to the candlestick on the bedside table and the small stub of candle there. Dear, good Friday must have snuffed it out. Sunday always received a severe tongue-lashing—sometimes more—whenever Mama discovered a candle burned down to the quick, for it was irrefutable proof that at least some of it had been wasted.
Beside the candlestick were the fairy stones and Grumble’s shiny golden ball. When Sunday had presented it to her family, Mama’s only comment was that Sunday had best not get too attached to the bauble. It would have to be spent immediately to cover the loss of the cow.
Despite Mama’s penny-pinching, Sunday suspected that all the gold in the world would not make her happy. She wondered what might. She wondered if her mother had ever been happy. If so, she wished she had been alive to see it.
Another poke.
“There’s been a Proclamation,” Mama said by way of explanation.
Sunday groaned. Royal Proclamations usually meant more work, less food, and the loss of something they had previously taken for granted.
“Prince Rumbold is hosting three balls.”
The prince whose evil fairy godmother had ruined her family forever. The suddenly reclusive prince who had been reported ill, missing, dead, or all three over the past several months, and who had evidently been restored to health, rescued, and/or resurrected. Whatever the true story, the spirit had apparently moved His Annoying Highness to throw a ball or three, so he was pretentious enough to announce them to the countryside like anyone cared a fig.
“Good for Prince Rumbold.” Sunday rolled over. Her soft pillow smelled deliciously of
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