Julie could picture it—the reminders that Gothel had told her about, the chaos that the griffin had described, the training the ogre had mentioned . . .
“Rapunzel was the last of us to fall,” he said. “Gothel herself trapped Rapunzel in her story by chopping her hair with the same ax that Rapunzel had used on the beanstalk to save Jack. After that, even she despaired, until the dwarves brought their news. It was then she decided that no one else would suffer. She and I alone would continue the fight.”
Watching him, Julie saw her mother through his eyes: strong and brave and selfless. She saw the pride in his face, and her heart felt like bursting. “So she went to the well?” she asked, breathless.
“It was not that simple,” he said. His hand was damper now, more like flesh than wood. It was as if the memories were making him more alive. Maybe they are, she thought. “The only time she leaves the tower is after the witch banishes her to the desert. Shortly after, she finds me, wandering blind. Her tears touch my eyes, and then we begin again. It is impossible to change this pattern. Believe me, we tried, but our story would always find us.”
“Then how . . . ?” she asked.
“It was Rapunzel’s idea,” he said, pride swelling his voice again. “She was the only one who truly understood how the Wild worked. It must complete its stories, you see. Rapunzel thought that the way for her to reach the well would be if I were there. We told no one—not the dwarves, not the witch—to limit the chance of the Wild interfering. Cinderella took me there in her pumpkin carriage without asking questions. She trusted Rapunzel that much. Once I was in place, the Wild saw to it that Rapunzel found me.”
It was a smart plan, including relying on Cindy’s trust. Julie realized she’d never considered whether or not her mother was smart. She was just Mom. Mom the hairstylist. Mom the fairy tale. But now—Mom the hero. Never “just Mom” again. “And that worked?” Julie asked. “She made the wish?”
“No,” he said. “It failed. Her tears fell before her wish could reach the well. We tried again and again. Even when I stood behind the well, even when I stood on top of the well, her tears touched me first. We tried again and again, I do not remember how many times. Perhaps hundreds. Perhaps thousands.”
“But she made the wish,” Julie insisted. “It worked, didn’t it?”
He smiled then like the sun rising. “Yes, it must have worked. You are here. Five hundred years have passed.” He looked around the throne room, wonder in his eyes. “Are we free of the Wild?”
Her throat clogged. How could she tell him? Unable to meet his eyes, she studied her feet, crusted in mud and flecks of blood. She glanced up. He must have seen the answer in her expression: his face crumpled. He took a breath as if to speak and then released it. He took another breath—gathering courage? “Rapunzel is not here,” he said.
The way he said her mother’s name made Julie’s heart hurt. It made her think of shattered glass. “She’s in a tower,” Julie said. “She’s in the Wild’s tower. What is the last thing you remember?”
He was silent for a moment, studying her. “You will not like it,” he said.
She heard a dull roaring in her ears. You will not like it. She knew what was coming: the reason why he had been left behind, the reason why she had grown up without a father. She nodded, understanding.
He continued to look at her as if reading something in her face—what did her face say? she wondered, what did he see when he looked at her? “What’s your name?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.
“Julie,” she said, and realized in a rush she was relieved: she wasn’t ready to hear whatever it was that she wasn’t going to like. “Julie Marchen. Märchen means ‘fairy tale’ in German. I don’t have a middle name. Mom didn’t know kids had middle names.” She stopped talking abruptly, realizing she was babbling. “What’s your name?”
He was silent for a moment. “Rapunzel called me her prince.”
“Nothing more specific?” Surely, Mom could have done better than that.
“You can name me, if you’d like,” he said.
She didn’t know what to say. How did you name your own father? “I want to call you ‘Dad,’” she said.
“I would like that,” he said.
Julie and her father lapsed into silence.
She took a deep breath. “I have to know,” she said. “The last wish. I need to know.”
He nodded. “It was a simple thing,” he said. “A simple plan. We had tried most everything else.” Julie didn’t breathe. In his soft and calm voice, he said, “She came to the well, and I stood on the stones. As she reached me, she began to cry. And so I jumped into the well. Her tears fell, but I had fallen first.”