Charm Page 10

  Cinderella saw his shoulders slump as soon as the door closed and he paused for a moment before walking away. She gave him a head start and then crept out from between the curtains and followed, staying close to the walls. It was late and most of the castle was sleeping or in their rooms; the only sound was the click of his heels on marble echoing as she snuck along behind him.

  Her heart sank as they reached his apartments, Cinderella still on the stairs, peering with one eye round the wall to watch him. He’d stopped outside his door. Was this going to be the first night he actually went to bed? Surely it couldn’t be? Surely—

  The prince leaned his forehead against the closed door and took a deep breath as if battling some internal dilemma. Cinderella’s heart raced as his jaw clenched and he stood up tall. What was plaguing him? Surely if he was just sleeping with a serving girl that wouldn’t cause any inner crisis. Unless he was beginning to fall in love with Cinderella, of course. Her heart leapt slightly at that. Even if she wasn’t sure that she loved him, she wanted him to love her. He sighed again, tapped his head gently against the wood two times and then turned away. Cinderella crept after him.

  The servants’ quarters – with the exception of the king and queen’s personal maids and footmen – were mainly located in the lower levels of the castle, and that was where Cinderella had expected them to head. The prince, however, didn’t lead her down into that hubbub of warmth and life. Instead, he walked steadily, with a sense of purpose rather than urgency, along several corridors that twisted and turned and then led into the heart of the building. It seemed far from the places that Cinderella knew, where windows let in so much light. This part of the castle she’d never seen before. She wondered how many months she’d have taken to find it herself.

  The corridors were darker, only occasional lamps lit on the walls, and here and there statues and pictures had been covered to protect them from dust. The air was cold and smelt slightly of damp as if no fires had been lit in the surrounding rooms for years. The prince’s shadow stretched long behind him and Cinderella let it guide her in his wake. She wondered for a moment what would happen if she lost him? Would she ever find her way back to the castle that she knew? Or would she wander these rooms screaming until she died? She wished she’d taken a hunk of bread from dinner and left a trail of breadcrumbs to follow should she need to. She shivered and crept closer. She wouldn’t lose him. She didn’t have a choice.

  Finally they came to a spiral stone stairwell and the prince began to climb it, Cinderella behind him. They climbed for several minutes and Cinderella hoped the prince wouldn’t hear her breathing as it became more laboured. There were no lights here, but a cold breeze zigzagged in the small space, and here and there tiny holes had been cut into the thick stone, perhaps for bowmen to shoot through a long time ago when the kingdoms were still to learn to keep their battles away from their capitals. Through them, shards of moonlight landed on patches of stone and Cinderella caught glimpses of abstract parts of the prince’s body; a leg, a shoe, a slice of torso, as the air grew colder and the stairs turned into a level floor.

  She’d thought they must be in one of the turrets, but instead it was another corridor. There was no pretence at decoration here, however, the walls only hung with cobwebs that extended from their corners, covered in dust. Grit dug into her bare feet as she hid in the shadows and watched the prince as he finally came to a halt outside a door. Unlike the others they’d passed this one had been polished recently, the dark wood shining and the iron that studded it black and gleaming. The prince reached around his neck and undid a chain. A gold key glinted in the gloom and Cinderella pressed herself against the wall as he glanced around before sliding it into the lock.

  The door swung open and then he was gone. Cinderella scurried forward in time to hear the grating of metal on metal as he locked the room once again from the inside. Her heart thumped and she pressed her eye to the tiny gaps where the hinges sat. What was he doing in there? What did he have in there that was so precious he’d locked it up so far from the central hub of the castle? He was the prince – surely he didn’t have to worry about anything being stolen? Why hide whatever it was? And why only visit in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep? She could see nothing through the tiny gap and pressed her ear against it instead. She could hear something; the scrape of a chair, and then his voice. He was talking, but she couldn’t make out his words. She frowned and listened harder, holding her breath. There was only one voice: his. Who or what was he talking to?

  She stared at the door wishing she could see through the wood. What was in there that was making him so secretive?

  A secret.

  That’s why he kept the key around his neck. That’s why he only came in the middle of the night. And that was why he kept whatever it was in this forgotten part of the castle. The king didn’t know about it. No one did. Her face flushed with excitement. Could this be what the fairy godmother had wanted her to find?

  She shivered in the quiet and the cold for an hour, listening to his voice burbling through the wood and then, when the key turned in the lock again, she darted back to the shadows, this time on the far side. Her hiding place didn’t matter. He was lost in his own thoughts when he emerged, and as soon as he’d secured the room he placed the key on its chain back round his neck and tucked it under his shirt before heading back towards the stairs, oblivious of Cinderella behind him.

  This time she paid attention to the journey. Her searching of the castle had honed her directional skills and at every turning they made she logged some small landmark, whether it be a covered picture or a crack in the paintwork on the walls. Finally, the lights grew brighter and she recognised her surroundings.

  She stopped and allowed the prince to slip away from her, knowing that he would be going back to his bedroom. Whatever need had driven him was sated by the secret contents of that locked room.

  Somewhere a clock chimed as if to welcome her back to the world of warmth and light and beauty. It struck three times. The huntsman would be waiting. Her heart leapt and she raced down the stairs, red hair flying out behind her, flames against the wall. Perhaps he’d have good news of Buttons. And she had news of her own.

  She arrived at the back door breathless and yanked it open. He was leaning against the wall, just as he always was.

  ‘I think I’ve found something! There’s a room! Somewhere forgotten! And he keeps the key around his neck. The prince! It’s where he goes at night. Do you think that’s what she wants?’

  She was dancing from foot to foot with excitement and it took a moment for her to realise something was wrong. The huntsman was leaning against the wall, that was true, but not with his normal laconic elegance. His head was down and one arm clutched against his side where a dark stain was spreading through his clothes. Her stomach shrank into the pit of her belly.

  ‘What happened?’ She stepped outside, not caring about the icy cold that stung her bare feet. ‘You’re hurt.’ Finally, he looked up.

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  His eyes were black with pain and his mouth pressed tight. Blood stained the side of his face.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Without thinking she pulled one of his arms around her shoulder. ‘Come on.’ He was heavy against her, using all his strength to stay on his feet, and she tried to murmur encouragement to him as they negotiated the route back up to her bedroom. In the light she could see that half of his tunic was sodden with blood and his tanned skin was pale. She choked back tears that suddenly sprang hot in the back of her eyes. The huntsman was always there. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

  Thankful it was the dead of night, they finally made it to her apartments and once inside she locked the door behind them.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he muttered.

  ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘And take your shirt off.’

  He gave her a half-smile and raised an eyebrow. ‘You might not get my best performance but I’m willing to give it a shot.’


  ‘Just do it.’ She flashed him an angry look, but inside her heart leapt. He wasn’t dying at least. Badly injured perhaps, but not dying.

  She filled a pan of water from the large jug on her table and hung it over the fire to warm, before turning the lights down and creeping through the connecting door into Rose’s room.

  Rose rolled over and murmured, but didn’t wake, and Cinderella checked her drawers as quietly as possible until she found the box of bandages and salves she knew Rose would have, exactly as she always had in their old house for every time Cinderella fell or scraped her knee or banged her head while playing. She silently thanked her step-sister and crept back to her own room, closing the door behind her.

  She left the lighting soft in case it would creep under the door and wake Rose and fetched the warm water. The huntsman had peeled his filthy shirt off and she could see the gash that ran up his side, his skin pulled apart and his flesh exposed. Thankfully it didn’t look too deep. She took a soft towel from the table and dipped it in the water, carefully starting to wipe the blood from his chest. His skin was tanned and the muscles in his stomach twitched as the cloth touched him. The prince’s chest was pale and smooth. The huntsman’s was tanned and scarred and dark hair curled across his sternum. She wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through it and feel the strong muscles underneath, and she swallowed involuntarily as a heat flooded through her body that had nothing to do with the fire. She could feel him watching her as she washed the edges of his wound, the atmosphere between them suddenly electric.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, desperate to break it. She dipped her fingers in the pot of salve and smoothed it over the long cut. His skin was warm beneath her touch and he gasped and swore under his breath.

  ‘Don’t be a child,’ she said, and smiled up at him from her place on the floor and for the first time she realised how very handsome he was. She didn’t know what she felt about him, this stranger. Sometimes she was sure she didn’t like him very much at all, and yet her heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst out of her chest. Her skin tingled with a sudden urge to feel his hands on her. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said again, wiping her hands.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The huntsman pressed a pad against his wound and held the end of the bandage against his stomach as she passed it round his back and wound it tight against the dressed wound. ‘All that matters is that your friend is safe. He’s in the woods.’

  ‘Buttons?’ Cinderella looked up. ‘But how . . .’ The questioned drained away as she thought of the gash on his side. It hadn’t been from a knife or a sword, it was too ragged at the edges. A claw, however . . .

  ‘You fought the troll?’ She got to her feet and stared at him as he tucked the end of the abandoned bandage away and stood up.

  ‘Sadly I didn’t kill it.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. How did you get past the guards? How did you—?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  He stood up, and they were so close the bodice of her dress was nearly brushing his bare skin.

  ‘You saved him?’ she said. She was breathless. She couldn’t help it. She felt like she had on the balcony at the Bride Ball but this time there were no charmed slippers to encourage the heat.

  ‘You wanted me to.’ His voice was cracked slightly and as his eyes travelled over her face she knew he felt the same passion she did. He reached for her, one hand sliding round her neck, the touch of his rough fingers sending sparks through her whole body, and he wrapped them in her hair. He spun her round so quickly she gasped. They were facing the large, ornate mirror that hung almost the length of the wall.

  ‘I want to watch you,’ he breathed into her neck. He held her tight against him and she was sure if he’d let go, her legs would give way beneath her. ‘I want you to watch you. See the woman you are.’ Their eyes locked in the mirror and he lowered his mouth, tracing his lips against her neck as one hand undid the laces at the front of her dress. She moaned and her head tilted sideways, as he breathed on her, barely touching her with his lips and tongue, as his fingers expertly sought out her nipple, teasing it, all the time his dark eyes watching her reactions from beneath the hood of his soft, dark hair. She pressed back into him feeling the hardness there and she reached a hand behind her to touch him. He grabbed her wrist firmly and stopped her, smiling at her reflection.

  ‘Slowly, princess,’ he whispered.

  ‘I want you to kiss me,’ she said, breaking his hold and twisting round to face him. Her dress was falling free, and he stared at her for a moment and then pushed her up against the mirror. Her arms slid round his waist and she ran her fingers up his naked spine. She could feel scar tissue breaking the smoothness of his skin and her stomach tingled all the more for it. This was no spoilt prince. This was a man who’d fought a monster because she asked him for help. He ran one hand up over her breast and to her neck, pinning her firmly against the glass. As their lips moved so close together she could feel the warmth of his breath and the strength of his hand and she thought she would explode. She gripped his back, the strange skin of the long scar on his back heightening her excitement and then, out of nowhere, her head was filled with the image of brown fur. A twitching nose.

  Scar tissue. On his back. The troll.

  Oh no. Oh no, it couldn’t be. Could it?

  ‘Wait just one minute.’ Just as his lips had been about to brush hers, she pushed him away, the pressure of her hand touching his bandaged side enough to make him gasp and pull back.

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  She stared at him as the realisation dawned on her. ‘You’ve got a scar on your back.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Just like the mouse. The one you insisted I give Buttons.’ Surely it couldn’t be? But the mouse had always been so odd, following first Buttons and then her. What kind of field mouse did that? She raised one shaking finger at him. ‘You’re the mouse, aren’t you? That’s how you got to the troll.’

  He stared at her and then shrugged. ‘She cursed me. And then when she needed me, she half-lifted it. Man by night, mouse by day.’

  ‘The fairy godmother?’ Cinderella’s eyes widened.

  ‘If that’s what you want to call her. She’s a queen, and she can be a bitch.’

  ‘But why? I mean . . . what did you do? And . . .’ Her head was filled with questions which were abruptly crushed by the sudden weight of memories. ‘Oh god,’ she wheezed, suddenly almost unable to breathe with the horror of it. ‘You’ve seen me naked. You watched me in the bath.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I put you down my top!’ She stared at him. ‘You bastard.’

  She turned away and covered her mouth as another memory dawned. Buttons. The mouse had been there when Buttons . . . . ‘My kitchen. You saw . . . you watched . . .’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’ he said, the start of a smile twinkling in his eyes.

  ‘Close your eyes at least? Run away.’

  ‘I’m a hot blooded man,’ he grinned, a lop-sided, infuriatingly handsome expression. ‘To be fair, inside your dress it was too dark to see anything. But the bath, and Buttons well, that was amazing . . . what could I do?’

  She let out some sound halfway between a growl and a shriek and slapped him hard across the face. He was unbelievable! How could she even have thought about kissing him? Had she forgotten how much he irritated her? She stormed to the door and unlocked it with shaking hands. ‘Get out,’ she said. ‘And get me the other slipper back from that witch.’

  ‘What do you need the slipper for?’ He frowned slightly.

  ‘Just get it. Then she can have her prize and then we can both be free of that woman’s meddling.’ She glowered at him. ‘And of each other.’

  ‘Fine,’ he strode towards her, his jaw locked. She wasn’t sure if it was in pain or anger or lust and she didn’t care. He was impossible. He was uncouth. What had she been thinking? She had almost kissed him! He stopped before her, in the d
oorway, and her heart started racing again despite herself. ‘If that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘Next time you need someone saving from a troll do it yourself.’

  She pushed him out of the door and locked it again, her breathing loud and angry, before throwing herself down on the bed like she used to as a teenager. She wanted to cry with the shame of it. How could he have just sat on the side of the bath and watched her doing that? He must have been laughing at her. God, she’d been so stupid. She punched the pillow and then buried her face in it. She hated him. She really, really did.

  10

  ‘She’d finish it once and for all . . .’

  She’d covered the mirrors over, for once wanting some complete quiet so she could think. There was nothing to see anyway. Black ice and slush filling the roads. The occasional tradesman heading to work early; bakers and butchers determined to catch what trade they could. She needed to lift the winter spell soon, but it came from a dark place in her soul that had a life of its own and was difficult to manage. But the people would need to eat and there was only so much ore the exhausted dwarves could mine in order to trade for grain. The kingdom – her kingdom – needed to thrive again and she had to make it happen. Yet she couldn’t make the ice inside herself melt, so how was she supposed to save the land?

  But maybe things would change soon. Perhaps they already were. Outside, the sky was turning from black to blue with hints of purple as dawn bruised the horizon. For once there were no heavy clouds gathering at the start of a new day, as if the shivers of excitement she’d felt had swept them away. She drank more wine and stared out at nothing. She knew she should steel herself for disappointment but she couldn’t help the warmth in the pit of her stomach. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. It had been doing so for hours, ever since the huntsman arrived, frozen and exhausted, and asked for the slipper. He’d been wounded but wouldn’t say how, and refused help from her medical men. He’d been bandaged well enough, he said. By better hands than anything she could offer. She didn’t argue with him. It would take far more than a flesh wound to kill off the huntsman.