She sat at the wheel, twisting her wrist inside the heavy metal cuff and watched him walk away from her and toward the door. She had never been alone in the castle before, and even when she was alone in the library or her room – when he was far away in another part of the house – she had always known he wasn't too far. The thought of being there by herself, when the door shut behind him – it was unnerving.
"Wait," she called. She sat up a little taller and looked at the red patch on his jacket. "Please," she added softly. She twisted the cuff around her wrist.
He stopped, his back still turned, and then swiveled slowly on his heel to face her.
"You," she started. How to ask this question? "You will come back for me, won't you?"
A smile – a full smile – turned the corners of his mouth up, etching the sides of his face with those impeccably drawn laugh lines.
"Of course," he said. His normally honey tones dripped with a hint of laughter and a slightly sardonic air. He gave a stately bow and then straightened.
She smiled. But that was not it – exactly.
"But," she said. She swallowed. "But it's safe here, right? I mean, no one can get in here except for you, right?" she asked.
His brows knitted together in question and he looked at her.
She waited. Before she would have jumped in to explain, but now she recognized this look. It was the look he had when he was thinking. He weighed all words very carefully, whether he said them or they were said to him. Was that why he spoke so slowly?
He walked back to her in measured, even strides, and she felt herself relax a little when he got close. He leaned down so that he could look directly into her face.
"What is it that you're asking me, child?" he said. He said it very gently and his voice was low and velvety soft, a tone he only used with her when they were in private.
"I guess," she said. She twisted the cuff and turned herself around on the seat so that she was fully facing him.
When she did this, he placed a hand on the seat next to her and then knelt onto floor in front of her so that they were eye-level to each other. He leaned in studying her face, his other arm draped over his bent knee.
"I guess, I was thinking," she started. She looked at the curtain beside her that blocked her view of the outside and then back at him. "I've never – been here before all by myself," she said.
He listened to her intently, leaning toward her, probing her face with his eyes.
"And, if something were to happen," she said. She looked at him, hoping he would understand.
He drew in a little closer so that they were almost touching. "Go on, my dear," he said.
When he leaned in like that, she felt the warmth of him enveloping her. It was like their own private space. He leaned back a little then, breaking the spell – so she could focus? – and he watched her.
"If something were to happen," she started again. "If I needed you," she said. She pressed her lips together and saw his eyes drop briefly to the side of her face and then raise again to meet hers.
"Yes," he said. He nodded, encouraging her. He was looking at her so intently. It was like he was listening with his whole body.
"What would I do," she finished. "If I needed you?"
His smile was almost kind but tinged with a line of suspicion.
"Well then, you would call to me," he said.
"Call to you," she asked. She shook her head. "But I don't understand. If you weren't here, how would you hear me if I called to you?"
He smiled then, the kindness and suspicion both intensified, dancing across the surface of his eyes when he looked at her. He leaned in so that he was touching her now, his chest against the front of her knees, and laid his hand over both of hers in her lap. His fingers rested lightly on her wrists and the edges of the cuffs.
"Here this, my dear, are you listening to me?" he asked. His golden eyes were fixed on her.
She nodded. "I'm listening," she whispered.
"If at any time you ever need me, all you have to do is say my name," he said.
She looked down at his golden hand – so delicate and fine – like a piece of art resting on her hands. "That's it?" she asked.
"That's it," he said. He smiled a little.
"Even if you're not here?" she asked.
"Any time you call to me, no matter where I am, I will come for you," he said.
She took in a slight breath. "You mean forever?" she whispered. She hadn't meant to say it. She hadn't even realized the words had slipped out.
He leaned back a little and took his hand off of the surface of hers.
"Forever," he said. He said it lightly, like the ending to a magic trick or a story, but the way he looked at her. It was – sincere.
# # #
The door closed behind him, and even though he knew she couldn't see him, he refused to look back. No. Better to keep his distance. Distance is measured in strides, and strides are more than just metres.
He walked to the edge of the clearing, to a tree a stone's throw away from the front door. He reached up and wrapped his hand around a heavy branch, its bark curled and gnarled from years of winter storms. He pulled down once – just to test its strength – and then swung himself lightly up onto it. He settled his back against the tree's curved trunk, leaning his head against it. He lifted his left foot to rest on the surface of the branch in front of him, bending his knee and draping his arm over it. His right leg hung down over the branch's edge, his foot swinging smoothly forward and back. The fingers of his left hand rubbed absently against the palm.
She was smart – he'd give her that much – offering her arms up to him like that. No doubt she had already seen it – the bolt – she was ready to work it into her plan. He had watched her make it, seen the gears fairly turning in her head. It had gone exactly as he had planned, and he allowed a slow, wide smile to spread across his lips. He had told her he would leave her alone. She had believed him. Oh, she had feigned the innocent princess – the chaste and obedient child – making him tea, packing him lunch. Did she think he was an idiot? A fool?
And all the while, she must have been thinking how easily she had tricked him. He laughed. She would soon see. But then why . . . he shook his head, as if to clear it. Why had she asked him that question? How did it fit into her game? She had asked if anyone could get in. Had she called somebody? Had she planned somehow to have someone rescue her? But then why today? How did she know that he would leave her alone today? If I needed you, she had said. What would I do, if I needed you? That part didn't make sense.
He rubbed his fingers together slowly. No. The plan. You have to stick to the plan.
The plan – was flawless. And after he had seen how clever she was this morning, he saw that the contingencies had been unnecessary. But no matter with that now. Always better to be prepared for one's quarry, however one might find it.
There were three ways exactly that she could escape. One. The chain had just enough slack in it for her to unwind it from the base of the spinning wheel if she stood up on the bench and unwound one hand at a time. This way was slightly harder, but he had left it open just in case she weren't bright enough to see the ease of the other two ways. Two. The spinning wheel was made of wood, above and below. Its base narrowed just above where it was bolted to the floor. It wouldn't take much, three, maybe four sharp kicks, and the base would splinter freeing her chains. This way was harder to spot and involved more force, but he didn't put it past her. She was strong for her size, he could tell that already. Although, he did hope she didn't choose this option because he was rather fond of that wheel. And her. No. No, you stick to the plan.
Three. And this really was his favorite option. The wheel was bolted to the floor with a single wrought iron bolt. If the bolt were tight, there would be no way she could loosen it with her bare hands. But it wasn't. He had loosened it the night before. He had loosened the bolt, just enough – barely three threads showing – so that she could unscrew it without too much difficulty and lift the wheel from the floor. Only a very smart girl, a very observant girl, would notice that the bolt was loose. And she had noticed it – he was sure of that from the way she had offered up her arms – which meant that she was a very, very clever girl.
He smiled, pressing his fingers lightly into the palm of his hand. He admired her – he had to admit it. She was smart and cunning and observant – all things that would serve her well in this life. And that made her a worthy opponent. It was no secret that he virtually always won in his contests with other people. But there was little pleasure in outwitting or overpowering someone who had no chance to win. There was no challenge in it – no pleasure. To beat a worthy opponent, on the other hand, now those were the days worth living for.
# # #
She twisted the metal cuff around her wrist – around and around her wrist. She wished now that he had taught her to spin so that she could focus on something outside her own head. What had happened to her today? What had happened?
I was only playing. I didn't mean it.
When she and Gaston had been children, he had planned to play a trick on her. He had taken a white dove and put its head under its wing, and he had placed it inside a black magician's hat. She knew what he was planning – to show it to her and pretend that he had broken its neck to frighten her. He wanted to scare her and make her scream like a girl so he could laugh at her. But she'd had a clever idea to turn the joke around on him. She had taken a second dove and had actually broken its neck. She waited until he put the dove inside the hat and then quick – quick as lightning – she had changed them. He had shown her the hat and then reached his tiny hand inside. But when he had pulled out the dead bird, his face lost all of its color. She had clapped her hands together in glee and laughed and laughed and laughed. But he had only stared at her – horror-stricken – at the sight of the dead dove in his hand. And he had cried – huge, heavy teardrops rolling down his face – and she had stopped laughing.
"It was only a trick," she said. "Please don't cry."
But even when she had shown him the live dove, the one she had taken out from the hat, he wouldn't stop crying.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
She had said it over and over again, but he didn't stop.
I was only playing. I didn't mean it.
And still, he cradled the dead dove in his hand, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.
She hadn't gotten it then, hadn't really understood, but she got it now. She got it when she had looked into Rumpelstiltskin's face and seen that look again – that exact look – the look Gaston had had on his young face when he had realized what she had done. The dove was dead, and it didn't matter that it hadn't been the same one. It was dead. It was never coming back. It was dead. And the loss – the loss that she had seen so clearly on the unguarded face of her childhood friend – it was the same loss that she saw in Rumpelstiltskin's face today. He had lost and lost and lost and lost and no matter what happened for the rest of his life, whatever he had lost was gone.
She had felt so ashamed then – so utterly and horribly ashamed – she had stepped back from him in her misery. She thought she had grown up, but she had been just as callous and cruel – just as careless a child. She had only been teasing him – she hadn't meant him any harm – but when she saw that longing on his face when he watched her making his tea – taking care of him – she had been overwhelmed with regret. She had hurt him – with her teasing, her playing, her flirting – she had hurt him just as clearly as if she had shoved a knife deep into his chest. And she was ashamed. And she was sorry. And she wanted to take it all back.
She had only been playing. He was in such good humor sometimes. He told jokes. He even seemed to tease her. She hadn't meant her actions to hurt, but she could clearly see that they had. He pretended to be strong. He pretended not to care. But he was vulnerable – achingly vulnerable. His heart had broken for a moment just from watching her make his tea. He had lost so much, and she had realized then that losing anything more – it could shatter him.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. It slipped off the walls of the empty room. "I was only playing. I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."
And that was why she hadn't come to him when he had called. She was too ashamed. She was too sorry. She couldn't act as if nothing had happened. She had seen something she knew he hadn't meant for her to see, and she couldn't bear to go on talking with him – to lie and pretend that she hadn't seen it. And when he had held out his hand to her, she'd had to force herself to walk up to him. And she had waited, and she had watched his face so carefully. She didn't want to hurt him again by taking his hand. She didn't want to take – not one more thing – from this beautiful, broken man.
He had tried to sound mean, and that had made her feel even worse – worse for having seen behind his curtain. Because he didn't know what she had seen – didn't know what he had shown her – and didn't know how carelessly she had been playing. So when he had asked her for her hands – he could have asked her for anything – and she would have offered it up to him for his forgiveness. She would have given him anything in that moment – anything to give him the slightest bit of comfort from all the pain he had endured.
When she had looked up at him, he had stepped back away from her, and he'd been shaking.
I'm sorry. I was only playing. I'm so sorry.
He had been afraid to even touch her, and she had reached for him, begging him not to be afraid. She had told him with her eyes that she would never do it again. She had promised. She would never flirt – never tease him again. She would never take his feelings so lightly ever, ever, ever again. If he wanted to play, if he were ready to share a joke with her or a laugh, then she would. But only if he were ready – only if he knew for certain it was a joke.
He had been pretending to be mean so that she would be afraid of him and think him a monster, but she had been the monster today. She had killed the dove, and the fact that she had meant it in play didn't make it any better. It made it worse – made her worse – because she had taken something so vulnerable and pure and made it a game.
Tears dripped down her face, and she bent down, laying her forehead on her outstretched hands, elbows balanced on her knees. A tear broke free and landed on the wooden floor. She wiped it away with her foot, and that's when she noticed the bolt.
# # #
He opened the satchel she had made for him. It was taking longer than he had thought. He had only planned to be in that tree for an hour, maybe two at the most. How long did it take to unscrew a simple bolt and move a spinning wheel? If he had known it would take her this long he would have asked her to put a little more in the bag.
His right leg dangled idly, and he let it sway slowly back and forth.
He hadn't lit the fire before he left or lit any of the candles on the table. If she didn't come out the door before long, pretty soon she'd be sitting there in the dark. What could be keeping that girl? It wasn't that she minded the dark so much – he had noticed she was just as comfortable during the night as in the day – but she was always getting cold. That was the problem with leaving her alone. The slightest chill in the air or draft from one of the windows and she would shiver, gooseflesh all up and down her arms. He had to fight the urge to smile.
And what did it matter to him, anyway, if she were cold? It was only her own fault for the delay. If she would hurry up and unscrew the bolt, she could be standing outside in the sun right now and then he could be taking her back inside, his arm around her waist, instead of sitting here for hours on top of a tree branch. Even he was starting to get cold.
He considered briefly abandoning the plan. I mean, if she hadn't figured out the bolt was loose by now, it was doubtful she would before nightfall. And he did not want to sit in this tree until then. But he had gone to so much trouble to set this whole thing up – he was almost embarrassed to forget about it now.
He leaned his head back against the tree, sipping the cool, sweet tea she had made him. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid he might fall asleep and so miss her exiting the door. He wasn't normally sleepy after meals – he ate so lightly most of the time – but after only a few pieces of bread and some sweet tea his eyes were getting heavy. He had stayed up all night, not slept even a little, because he'd been thinking and rethinking the plan.
He knew he shouldn't, but it was so hard not to let his mind drift to all the things that might happen when she walked out the door. The plan was to catch her – that part was simple enough – but what had pained him was thinking up the punishment. It needed to be severe, he had known that much. And it needed to frighten her rather badly. He had thought of all the different things he could do, but not one of them had seemed right. Some were too severe – he didn't want to really hurt her – and some weren't severe enough. She was brave and difficult to chasten.
He wanted her off balance just a touch, which seemed to be taking much more effort than it had with anyone else. She was so trusting with him sometimes – so comfortable – she took liberties that nobody should take with him. She flounced and teased and even flirted this morning, trusting in her beauty to save her. No, he wasn't going to hurt her. But he was going to scare her.
He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, licking the sweetness of the tea off his lips, and he closed his eyes thinking about the first part – the part he would try not to enjoy. When she came out of the castle, he would drop down from the tree and catch her. He hoped she wouldn't run. If she did, he might have to grab her, and he wouldn't want to hurt her doing that. And once he had caught her, he would put his arm around her – soothe her a little if she were very frightened – and then walk her gently back inside. He would take her upstairs to his bedroom and start a roaring fire with the wave of his hand so she wouldn't be cold. Then he would take her to the mantle and gently – ever so gently – he would raise her arms and place them on the mantle. He would position his body behind her so that she couldn't back up, and so that she'd be standing between the warmth of the fire and him. Then he would caress her back – just once – and begin opening her gown from behind.
If she cried then, he would comfort her – he would promise not to hurt her, and he would keep that promise. But after he was finished opening the back of the dress – he tried not to think about what she would look like – he would walk her over to the bed. He would let her hold the dress up in front of her – he wouldn't make her take it off. And then he would lay her down very gently on the bed, letting her curl her arms in front of her, with only her back exposed. He wasn't sure exactly how low the zipper of the dress went, but if it went too low, he would cover her with the blanket so that only her back showed. And then he would remove his belt – slowly – let her hear what he was doing so she would be afraid, so her mind would conjure all the things he might be planning to do.
And then – and this was the part he hated to think about – he would lash her with his belt. He looked down at the thin suede belt tied in a knot around his hips. He had selected it carefully, gone through all the belts he owned. He had tested each one, whipping them over and over his bare leg. He had discarded all the leather ones and the ones that had buckles, and had settled instead on this one. It was one of his oldest and so it was fairly soft and when he'd used it on himself, it had only stung for a moment. His skin hadn't pinkened, and he would stop immediately if hers did.
The punishment, you see, was not the lashing at all. The punishment was the part before it, when he was walking her up the stairs to his bedroom, when he was placing her arms on the mantle, when he was opening the back of her dress, when he was laying her down on the bed. The punishment was making her fear him, allowing her own thoughts to run away with her. The punishment was making her see that she was vulnerable. Like she was when she gave you her hands?
The voice was sharp and derisive in his head, and he smacked it away.
You won't do it. I know you won't.
He glared at the voice in his head. Shut up.
You'll stop the moment you look into those big blue eyes and see that she's frightened. The voice taunted him.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Who are you kidding? You're not going to take her upstairs. The moment she looks up at you, those big tears rolling down her face, you'll forget about the whole thing.
I won't, he insisted. I'll punish her.
You are so weak, the voice went on. You would let her get away with murder before you would touch a single strand from her head.
Shut up!
He hated her – that voice. It wasn't the queen in reality, just that she had somehow gotten into his head, made him doubt himself. It was like hearing the harsh words of his father long after the man had been dead. The queen didn't know anything about this. He kept the mirrors covered just in case. But he couldn't deny that he had heard her voice all night long, laughing at him – mocking him – as he had lashed his own legs to red welts.
# # #
A strange thing happens when you begin to decide your own fate. You decide – your own – fate.
She rolled the bolt between her two hands, feeling its weight against her palms. She could leave right now. She could stand up and walk out that door – consequences be damned. And she'd be gone already – truth be told – if she hadn't seen that look on his face this morning.
Something happens to you, something changes inside of you, when you start to look out for yourself. There's a survival instinct, it's fierce and strong like a panther, and it urges you to run when there's danger and it makes you keep fighting when you can't go on. And that panther was loose inside of her.
The bolt was in her hands and the door was in her sight and the animal part of her – the panther part – told her to run like there was no tomorrow, warned her she had already wasted far too much time deliberating her options.
"Just go if you're gonna go," she whispered to herself. "Just go."
She didn't owe him a thing. She had never laid eyes on him before two days ago. She was sorry for all that he had lost, but she had not been the one to take from him. She had never taken from him – had stopped herself before she had ever had the chance to take from him. She could leave now. She could run before things got worse – before he came back and did to her those things that he had promised – before she felt anything in her heart as tender and soft as she had when she had looked into his eyes this morning.
If only it were yesterday. She could have left if it had been yesterday. Or even if it had been this morning – early, early this morning – before he had looked at her like a lost little boy. She could have left him then. She could have walked right out the door. She could have separated herself from him completely. How had he bound her so after not even forty-eight hours had passed?
She looked down at the chains flowing over her lap, and they mocked her. The chains were the cruelest of jokes. He had no need to bind her wrists when he had already so fully bound her heart. She shook her head, furious at herself, the panther spitting at her and pacing inside the walls of her insanity. You don't deserve me, the panther snarled. You don't deserve to survive at all. Anyone who would trade their safety, their freedom, their life – for another? – for one you wouldn't have known from Adam two days before? Any such person doesn't deserve to survive. Any such person deserves to get eaten – by a wolf.