Into the Wild(58)

He shrank and fell behind.

Shrieking, a battalion of witches flew toward her. Touching the tips of their broomsticks, she turned them into birds. Trolls, ogres, and seven-headed dragons—the magic from her wand flew—became frogs, mice, and stone.

The woods closed around her. Branches reached for her as the trees thickened. Bark morphed into walls, trapping her. No! No more woods!

Spinning in a circle, she slapped the branches with the wand and shouted, “From trees to flowers!” The woods around her turned into a meadow. All was suddenly silent.

Julie saw a hunched figure ahead, sitting on a rock in the middle of the meadow. Cautiously, she walked forward. Hooded, the old woman poked at the grasses with the butt of her broomstick. She didn’t look up as Julie approached. “Grandma?” Julie said. She stopped a few feet in front of her.

The witch raised her head. With her rheumy red eyes, she regarded Julie. “You have won,” the Wild said through her. “I will give you your wish—I will give you your heart’s desire.”

Home. She’d won. Julie closed her eyes and tried to feel happy. Instead, she felt drained and tired. She remembered everything now: Mom and Boots and Gillian and Kristen and the dwarves and the swan soldiers. She remembered the police and the media and the awfulness that awaited their emergence from the Wild.

Standing creakily, the witch touched the rocks in the meadow with the bristles of her broom. The rocks rose into the air as if lifted by invisible giants. Sailing over the dun-colored grass, the rocks collided. Sticking together, they bubbled into more rocks. The wall grew, budding, down into the earth. Spires spun out of the base. Roses spread across the stones, and flowering trees sprouted around it. An arch widened, and steps carved themselves out of the air. Red cloth rolled down the stairs and across the grass to stop at Julie’s feet. A door peeled open at the top, and the castle waited.

Climbing the stairs, Julie went inside.

Sunlight streamed through unfinished holes as the roof of the castle laced itself shut. Chandeliers flew to the ceiling. Ivory silks draped themselves over the walls. Candles burst into flame. Golden statues stepped into alcoves. Marble tiles laid themselves over the floor. Julie walked through the hall as the red carpet knit itself in front of her.

The carpet ran into a throne room and up to a dais enclosed by a curtain. Julie walked up wide marble steps. She touched the velvet curtain. Of its own accord, it swept open. Golden ropes tied it back on either side of the dais.

On the throne, a man sat as still as stone.

Velvet robes, silk blouse, golden circlet on his head, he looked like a prince. He had pale lines—half-faded scars—on his face, as if he had been scratched, as if he had fallen into a nest of thorns . . . as if he had fallen from a tower into a nest of thorns. I will give you your heart’s desire, she remembered the Wild had said—and she knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, who he was. He had a cloth wrapped around his eyes. Gently, Julie untied the cloth. It fell into her hands.

He blinked his eyes open. “Rapunzel?”

“Hello, Dad,” Julie said.





Chapter Twenty-five

Heart’s Desire

Every year, she had decorated her school locker with illustrations of him. On multiple weekends, she had combed every bookstore and library for hints of him. Many times, she had pretended other fathers were hers, trying to imagine what he would have been like.

None of that had prepared her for this moment.

She felt as if she were standing above Niagara Falls, dizzy with the crashing water. The stuff rolling inside her felt too big, too strong, too scary. She concentrated on the little things: his eyes, his hair, his nose, his mouth. She had his chin and cheekbones. She had his cheeks, though hers were softer and rounded. She wondered if that meant they had the same smile.

“I am ‘Dad’?” His voice was softer than she had imagined. Gillian’s father’s voice boomed across Crawford Street, but her father’s didn’t penetrate the tapestries. “You are Rapunzel’s daughter?”

“Yes,” she said—and felt as if she had stepped over the falls. Yes. Yes, she was Rapunzel’s daughter. Yes, she was his daughter.

She saw emotions flicker across his face so fast that she couldn’t read them—did he feel like she did? Was he happy to see her? Oh, what if he wasn’t? Maybe he didn’t want a daughter. Maybe he didn’t want her. He had to want her. She was strong enough to survive the woods, beautiful enough to be a princess, and smart enough to outwit the Wild. She was good enough to be his daughter!

“You are grown,” he said at last.