My Unfair Godmother(37)

My father’s words came out unsteadily. “Leave my daughter out of this. She has nothing to do with my taxes.” The man didn’t let go of my hair. “I’ve also heard reports of your other boasts. You claim your daughter is the fairest maid in the land—a jewel, a treasure.”

I pulled my hair out of the man’s grasp. “Trust me, my father has never said any of that.”

The man stepped even closer. His voice was soft, like the hiss of a snake. “Oh, but he has. He says you’re so talented you can spin straw into gold.”

A startled gasp sprang to my lips before I could suppress it. I was in a fairy tale after all: Rumpelstiltskin. Somehow the stories had been combined and I was the miller’s daughter.

Wow, when Chrissy messed up a wish, she did it in a big way. Not only could I not turn things into gold, but I was now in a fairy tale 121/356

where the king was going to execute me if I didn’t turn a room full of straw into gold thread.

I tried to make the man see reason. “Spinning straw into gold is just a saying, like, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ Clouds don’t really have silver linings, or it would rain money, wouldn’t it?” The man didn’t smile at my joke. I pushed on. “Spinning straw in-to gold is making the best of a bad situation.” Like this one. “People can’t literally do it. You must know that.” The bearded man narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you calling your father a liar?”

The knights that flanked us drew their swords, which seemed to indicate they actually didn’t want more input from me in this conversation.

“If your father lied about your abilities to spin straw into gold, he might have lied about other things too, perchance about his loyalty to King John.” The bearded man leaned closer to me. His breath smelled like rotting vegetables. “The penalty for disloyalty is death. So I’ll ask of you again, did your father lie when he claimed you could spin straw into gold?”

Sandra let out a sob; an intense, shaking fear lived in that noise.

“He doesn’t lie,” I said.

The bearded man took hold of my arm. “Then the king would be pleased to see your talents himself. My men shall escort you to the castle forthwith.”

The bearded man wrenched me away from my father and pulled me toward the front door.

Sandra let out a wail. My father stepped after me, grabbing hold of my arm. “You can’t just take her.” 122/356

A few of the men advanced toward us, swords drawn, showing that they could just take me. I yanked my arm away from my father.

“Don’t try to stop them. They’ll hurt you.” My father followed me anyway. “It’s only a fairy tale,” he insisted, like that made the weapons less sharp.

The men dragged me out the door. Over my shoulder, I called back, “The fairy tale never says what happens to the miller. I’ll be okay. You might not be.”

My father stopped following me then. I saw my family for one more moment: Dad, Sandra, and Nick, framed in the outline of the door with stark worry permeating their faces. And then I was hustled into the wooden coach, and one of the king’s men slammed the door shut.

The coach was sparse and dark inside, more like a prison than any of the carriages I’d seen in picture books. What light there was came in through several inch-wide gaps in the wallboards. Two rough-hewn benches sat on either side. No cushions. No backrests. And the wood looked full of slivers. I was glad I’d changed into jeans. At least they offered more protection than my pajamas.

A guard climbed in and sat across from me, smugly resting a knife on his knee. “You will stay seated,” he told me. I noticed he was missing several teeth too.

Without warning, the horses moved forward, making the carriage lurch drunkenly down the uneven dirt road. Out of the gaps in the back wall, I watched as my house, so odd-looking next to the wild trees of the forest, grew smaller and then disappeared.

Other houses came into view as we rode—shacks, really. Things made of mud and straw. Homes that a big bad wolf—or at least a severe storm—could blow right over. People came out to watch the carriage go by. The women wore ragged gray dresses and dirty aprons.



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Children, their feet bare, ran alongside the horses, waving at the procession. I wasn’t just a prisoner. I was entertainment.

The guard sat silently, regarding me without pity. I kept looking out through the gaps in the wall, paying attention to every landmark in hopes that if I escaped I’d be able to find my way back to my home.

And then those hopes fizzled. I wouldn’t be able to escape. The miller’s daughter was trapped in different rooms in the castle for three nights and the only way she kept from being killed was by making bargains with Rumpelstiltskin. That wouldn’t be so bad, I supposed. I already knew his name, but part of the fairy tale involved me marrying the king and giving birth to his son.