The door closed behind her with an ominous creak, followed by the final sharp click of a lock.
***
As I had climbed the stone staircase more than half convinced I was en route to my execution, my initial reaction involved a fair measure of relief, for a sliver of pie is better than naught. The blankets on the pallet, worn though they were, appeared at least clean. With effort I released the corroded window latch, and the tumble of warm fresh air reminded me that all was not lost.
As I dwelled upon the matter, however, I began to understand the true wretchedness of my situation. My farsighted ancestors had erected Chateau de Montagne at the seam, as
it were, where Ancienne's gentle eastern slopes meet its vertical northern cliffs. The Peach Rooms I had been given upon my arrival to the castle overlooked lovely Montagne, and the mysterious and imposing richness of Ancienne, her skirts patterned with crofters' cottages, apple orchards, grain fields, and the snowy sheep that produce our noted woolens. This new room, however—and I am most generous in my use of the term "room," for it was much closer to a cell—had one window, of smallish dimensions, that faced north. Instead of fertile valley, I could see only the torrent of the Great River, the switchbacks built into the cliff far below, and the distant foreign mountains. I occupied, in fact, the castle's tallest tower, which explained the stifling heat that radiated from the cell's southwestern walls.
I mulled on the tower-bound princess whose lover employed her hair as rope. My own curly locks—one of my better features, I will admit,
better
being a relative term—hung just past my shoulders, and barely draped over the windowsill. At this height, I would require leagues of hair and a scalp like a pachyderm's to support it. Besides, I reflected, scowling, I did not want a man coming to
me
.I instead required a means of departure.
But that would be impossible. The queen now controlled
my every move; I would eat, and dress, and depart this cell at her pleasure. Not one soul in the kingdom, certainly not the timid servant girl who cringed before Sophia, would have courage enough to find this cell and slip me food. Any illusions I retained that my life might be my own were gone forever.
In the weeks that followed I suffered greatly, though some kind souls did extend small offerings. At dinner one night I found a raisin roll hidden in my napkin. Discreet as I sought to be, Queen Sophia must have sensed my delight, and by the following night she replaced the dining staff. Occasionally I would discover a sweet tucked inside my writing book, or on taking the hand of a footman I would find a small wedge of chocolate in my own. But all in all, her noose grew ever tighter.
The situation collapsed completely at dinner one September evening. Perhaps it was the full moon that drove me to madness, or the gnawing, relentless emptiness of my heart. Whatever the trigger, the powder had been well packed, and my explosion, though shocking, was not altogether unexpected.
As always, the queen and Lady Beatrix prattled. The queen dined in a gown of poppy red silk laced with gold, the
fabric's unearthly shimmer reflecting the queen's own serpentine nature. Intent on eating with sufficient restraint that my portion not be further reduced, I ignored my companions as best I could, speaking only when addressed directly. As the second course, a bland pork loin baked in pastry, was laid before us, my stomach rumbled.
Lady Beatrix tittered. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am unused to this earthiness."
"We do better to rise above such vulgarity," the queen admonished her lady while I seethed. How dare they describe me as vulgar, as if my belly's grumbling were within my control! Yet I set my jaw, determined not to reveal my aggravation.
At last the queen nodded for our plates to be cleared. Lady Beatrix, I could not but notice, had barely touched her food. "Your Majesty," I spoke, "forgive me,
***
As I had climbed the stone staircase more than half convinced I was en route to my execution, my initial reaction involved a fair measure of relief, for a sliver of pie is better than naught. The blankets on the pallet, worn though they were, appeared at least clean. With effort I released the corroded window latch, and the tumble of warm fresh air reminded me that all was not lost.
As I dwelled upon the matter, however, I began to understand the true wretchedness of my situation. My farsighted ancestors had erected Chateau de Montagne at the seam, as
it were, where Ancienne's gentle eastern slopes meet its vertical northern cliffs. The Peach Rooms I had been given upon my arrival to the castle overlooked lovely Montagne, and the mysterious and imposing richness of Ancienne, her skirts patterned with crofters' cottages, apple orchards, grain fields, and the snowy sheep that produce our noted woolens. This new room, however—and I am most generous in my use of the term "room," for it was much closer to a cell—had one window, of smallish dimensions, that faced north. Instead of fertile valley, I could see only the torrent of the Great River, the switchbacks built into the cliff far below, and the distant foreign mountains. I occupied, in fact, the castle's tallest tower, which explained the stifling heat that radiated from the cell's southwestern walls.
I mulled on the tower-bound princess whose lover employed her hair as rope. My own curly locks—one of my better features, I will admit,
better
being a relative term—hung just past my shoulders, and barely draped over the windowsill. At this height, I would require leagues of hair and a scalp like a pachyderm's to support it. Besides, I reflected, scowling, I did not want a man coming to
me
.I instead required a means of departure.
But that would be impossible. The queen now controlled
my every move; I would eat, and dress, and depart this cell at her pleasure. Not one soul in the kingdom, certainly not the timid servant girl who cringed before Sophia, would have courage enough to find this cell and slip me food. Any illusions I retained that my life might be my own were gone forever.
In the weeks that followed I suffered greatly, though some kind souls did extend small offerings. At dinner one night I found a raisin roll hidden in my napkin. Discreet as I sought to be, Queen Sophia must have sensed my delight, and by the following night she replaced the dining staff. Occasionally I would discover a sweet tucked inside my writing book, or on taking the hand of a footman I would find a small wedge of chocolate in my own. But all in all, her noose grew ever tighter.
The situation collapsed completely at dinner one September evening. Perhaps it was the full moon that drove me to madness, or the gnawing, relentless emptiness of my heart. Whatever the trigger, the powder had been well packed, and my explosion, though shocking, was not altogether unexpected.
As always, the queen and Lady Beatrix prattled. The queen dined in a gown of poppy red silk laced with gold, the
fabric's unearthly shimmer reflecting the queen's own serpentine nature. Intent on eating with sufficient restraint that my portion not be further reduced, I ignored my companions as best I could, speaking only when addressed directly. As the second course, a bland pork loin baked in pastry, was laid before us, my stomach rumbled.
Lady Beatrix tittered. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am unused to this earthiness."
"We do better to rise above such vulgarity," the queen admonished her lady while I seethed. How dare they describe me as vulgar, as if my belly's grumbling were within my control! Yet I set my jaw, determined not to reveal my aggravation.
At last the queen nodded for our plates to be cleared. Lady Beatrix, I could not but notice, had barely touched her food. "Your Majesty," I spoke, "forgive me,
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