Author's Note: I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter. Please review. Even a "Good job" or an "I hate it" is better than nothing. Any tips? Ideas? Speculations? Thanks to In-Christ Billios, Baroness Orc, and Ihatejacob1 for their reviews. Again, I DO own the characters and everything but the basic archetype and the glass slippers. Questions, comments, concerns? Please review or PM me! Also, feel free to check out my profile and other stories. Reviewers get random bits of trivia about the story!!!
Chapter 9
Christmas morning was clear and bright. Isabelle woke a little later then she had intended. Humming hymns, she bustled down to the kitchen to finish the feast she had prepared. Trestan wasn't there, but he had built a huge fire in the fireplace. Isabelle smiled; he was always remembering the details that she sometimes missed. She could not wait to show him the candles she had found, but that could wait until after lunch. Isabelle warmed some bacon, sausage, and the apple turnovers, waiting for Trestan. Finally he came, bearing a slightly snowy pine branch and singing about the Noel. He had a fine, rich voice. Seeing Isabelle by the fire, the bear paused for a moment. Isabelle picked up the melody where he had left it, singing about the angels that appeared to the shepherds from on high. When the song was finished, Isabelle received the pine branch form him and hung it from one of the iron hooks above the mantle.
"Joyeux Noel, Trestan Conradi," Isabelle smiled, "You may eat the honey biscuits now."
"Merry Christmas to you also," the bear replied. "As for the biscuits, it is good to finally be able to eat them without fear of banishment from the kitchen, or of flogging with that wooden spoon of yours."
For a little while after breakfast, Trestan helped Isabelle complete the final preparations for the midday meal, and then disappeared for an hour before noon. Isabelle wanted to run quickly to the room she had cleaned and double-check that the candles were still there, but instead stayed to make sure that nothing burned. She doubted that they would eat a meal so big and fine until summer came; Isabelle would not burn their feast the way she had the sausages that Trestan had so valiantly eaten.
The girl absently fingered the belt she had sewn for him; it was of silk as grey as Trestan's eyes and patterned with snowdrops and roses she had embroidered. After the excitement of Christmas, how would they spend the rest of the winter? Late December, January, February—how would they spend those months until Isabelle could go home? The roads could be open as early as March or as late as May.
A wave of homesickness enveloped Isabelle; she wished for her home, the place where she could be happy, instead of the dreadful waiting and uncertainty that came with her curse. Being home would not solve all of her problems, Isabelle realized. She had merely been living there until her father would marry her off. There had been a few suitors already, though with none she had been particularly impressed. Suddenly, a small part of her was glad to be free, but the rest of her despaired. Cursed with a half-life, no man would accept her now. Isabelle sunk into a chair, defeated.
After a moment, the savory smell of pheasant drifted over to her from where it roasted. Isabelle decided to worry about tomorrow when if finally came. It was Christmas; she should be merry. Isabelle gingerly set the small crock of butter on the table. They were to have real butter that Trestan bought in the village when he had gone pheasant hunting. Isabelle wondered how much he had paid for the luxurious yellow stuff. Perhaps she was better off not knowing. The darkness lifted from her heart as the clock struck twelve; it was now afternoon. Stomach growling, Isabelle hoped that Trestan would come in soon.
Isabelle heard footsteps in the hall. The sound of Trestan's long stride had an unusual bounce to it. Trestan swept into the room, and took the plate from the astonished girl's hands. Isabelle stepped back, examining him. Trestan looked almost like a stranger to her. He had washed, and shaved the stubble that he had let grow on his chin. He smelt faintly of wood smoke, a comforting, homey smell. The most drastic change about him, however was his smile. Isabelle had never seen him in a better mood. It was as if Trestan had taken on all of the cheeriness in the world or was bracing himself for a last stand. Whatever it was, Isabelle stared at him, astounded by this change in him. He would not be standing in the doorway, longing for the open road today.
"Going to stand there forever?" Trestan said wryly. Even his sarcasm was cheerful today.
"Oh, er, no," Isabelle said, startled into action. She picked up the sash and held it out to him. "This is for you," she said suddenly. "It is not much," the girl added, a little embarrassed.
Holding the plate in one hand, Trestan took the belt gingerly in his other. "Thank you, Isabelle. It's lovely." He tried to put it on while still holding the plate.
Isabelle shook her head at him. "Here," she laughed, "let me." Isabelle put her arms around him to put his belt on. She froze for a moment; Trestan was so near. Isabelle backed away quickly and tied the knot of the belt, not meeting his eyes.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Isabelle nodded in acknowledgement.
"Go up to your room a moment," Trestan said suddenly. "Go on," he urged good-humoredly, "I will finish here."
"Why?" Isabelle protested. She tried to take the plate back from Trestan, but he held it above her reach and shook his head, as if chiding a naughty child. "Besides," she put her hands on her hips, exasperated, "how will you know what to put on the table?"
"You've been prattling on about it all week," the man said, one eyebrow raised. "I was listening, you know."
Isabelle shrugged, defeated. She untied her apron, handed it to Trestan and resigned herself to going upstairs. She was curious to see what he would do when she returned. What had he done? It would not be like Trestan to send her on a futile errand; this jaunt upstairs must have a purpose.
Isabelle came to her room, wondering what was inside. The bed, floor, and writing desk were the way that she had left them that morning. The only thing amiss was the wardrobe. Isabelle almost did not notice at first; the door on the wardrobe did not close easily so Isabelle always left it ajar. The door on the wardrobe was shut tightly. Isabelle pried it open, then stared in wonder. Inside the wardrobe was a pink silk gown.
The over-dress, the color of the first pink roses in spring, had a tight bodice with a heart shaped neckline, tight sleeves that ended at the elbow, and a long skirt which parted in front to display the gold embroidered kirtle. The kirtle had bell-like sleeves and a straight neckline which showed above the neckline of the over-dress. The edges of both dresses were trimmed in gold. There were also white petticoats and a corset tucked toward the back of the wardrobe.
Isabelle examined the dress, praying that she was not dreaming. Although the garments were a bit moth-eaten, wrinkled, stained, and torn, Isabelle thought they were beautiful. After realizing that the one who had given her this gift was waiting, she put it on and rushed downstairs.
Isabelle burst into the kitchen. Trestan had set the table and was sitting at it. At the sigh of her, he rose with a sharp intake of breath.
"You look lovely," Trestan said, slightly uncertain of himself. "Does it fit? Er, I mean, do you like it?"
"Yes," Isabelle beamed, "Thank you, Trestan Conradi."
"Shall we eat, m'lady?" Trestan said with a gentlemanly bow.
"Yes, we shall."
Isabelle ate cheerfully, trying not to get food on her clothes. During the meal, she and Trestan were mostly silent, but the silence was not awkward or unpleasant. When he was finished, Trestan pushed away his plate.
"That was good," he said simply.
"Merci," Isabelle replied.
"Cook any more at that rate and there will be nothing left in the pantry," Trestan teased.
"Do you think that we'll have enough food come spring?" Isabelle said, alarmed.
"We should be fine," Trestan said, "Hopefully spring will come early. We can worry about it then."
Isabelle sighed, then rose and piled the dishes. She began to dunk them in a bucket of water and grabbed her wash rag from a hook nearby. Isabelle wished she could clap her hands and the dishes would be clean, but that was unrealistic. There was work to be done; she would have to do it. Isabelle started when Trestan touched her hand when it was nearly in the dishwater.
"Leave those," he urged. "They will still be there tomorrow."
"Oh, alright," Isabelle agreed. "What do you wish to do now?"
"How about a game of chess?" Isabelle suggested. She had grown better at the game since Trestan had taught it to her. Even though she was a poor strategist, Isabelle knew that Trestan enjoyed the game.
"Yes, thank you," Trestan grinned. "You have been in this kitchen too long," he suggested, "Why don't we play in the library?"
"You're ridiculous," Isabelle said, amused. "It will be freezing cold up there."
Trestan shrugged, picked up the chess board and went to the library. Isabelle followed, wondering what he was up to.
The library was blissfully warm; an extravagant fire blazed in the grate. A few weeks before, Trestan had dragged a small table and two chairs up to the library. Isabelle drew her chair nearer the fire and sank into it gratefully. They played four games of chess, Isabelle winning one without any help from Trestan. The fire began to die down as they put the chess board aside.
"Trestan," Isabelle inquired, "Which of these books is your favorite?"
"The Psalms, probably," Trestan shrugged, "I also enjoy the Iliad. I have read little lately; it is always dark when I have the time. There will be plenty of winter though."
"Oui," Isabelle replied distantly, "there shall be."
Trestan stood and went to the nearest shelf. "Is there anything else that you would like to do today?" He said, fingering the books lovingly.
Isabelle realized how selfish she was. Here, Trestan wanted to read and she was keeping him from it. She decided to withdraw and let him have the luxury of being able to read in peace.
"No," Isabelle replied curtly, rising and heading to the door. "There is not. You read, go on."
"Are you certain?" the man said. Isabelle thought that he sounded the slighted bit disappointed.
Once Isabelle was at the door, she looked back at him for a second. Trestan was settling back into his chair, a frown etched on his handsome features. He half-heartedly opened the book and began to read.
"Trestan?"
"Yes?" He said, eyes alight. He put so much hope into the word.
Isabelle thought about just shaking her head and leaving, but she didn't. Instead, Isabelle asked like a guilty child, "Would you read to me?"
"Yes," he said, beaming at her, "I believe that could be arranged."
Trestan began to read the Iliad aloud, pausing only for the occasional question from Isabelle. When it was finally too dark to read, Trestan stopped. With a word of thanks, Isabelle slipped down to the kitchen to warm over the food left from lunch.
While the food was over the fire, Isabelle lit the end of a stick on fire and went to the room with the candles. To save the candles, Isabelle only lit the first one. She retreated back downstairs, meeting Trestan in the hall near the kitchen.
"Where were you?" He asked, a little surprised. "I thought you would be in the kitchen."
"Nowhere," Isabelle snapped, trying to keep him from being suspicious. She changed the subject. "Are you hungry?"
Still a little full from noon, the two ate a small supper. The kitchen grew darker until it was lit solely by the fire. Isabelle cleared the table as Trestan banked the fire.
"Isabelle," Trestan began, "Thank you for making all of this food; it was delicious."
"Don't thank me yet," Isabelle said, eager to show Trestan her last gift for him. "Follow me."
"Alright," the man said suspiciously.
Isabelle led him to the room that she had found, silent except for a single "Watch your step" on the stair case leading to the door. There was a tiny shaft of light coming from under the door. Isabelle opened the door just widely enough for her to slip inside.
"Don't I get to come in too?" Trestan asked with mock indignation.
"No," Isabelle scolded playfully. "Wait a moment and if you peek, why, I'll have your hide."
"I thought today was about peace on earth," Trestan groaned pathetically.
Isabelle lit two other candles off of the first. The light made the stained-glass windows glitter; Isabelle had spent hours polishing them, dusting the cobwebs off of the walls, and sweeping the floors. The room was spotless, but this was hard to see in the shadows formed in the candlelight.
"You can come inside now," Isabelle called to him.
"Finally," Trestan said as he began to open the door. "I thought I was going to die of old a—" His voice trailed off, leaving the rest of his playful complaint unsaid.
Trestan entered the room with hushed awe. He admired the candelabra, warming his hands over the candle flames. "Is this for me?" the man asked hesitantly.
For once, Isabelle bit back a sarcastic response. A smile at the corners of her mouth, she nodded.
"Thank you," Trestan said sincerely. "This means much to me."
"You are welcome," Isabelle said shyly. "I owe you so much, a debt I fear is too great to repay…"
"There is no need to think like that," Trestan said earnestly, taking her little hands in his enormous, paw-like ones. "You made the food, and were the reason why we had Christmas… I had forgotten what it was like, to sit down and eat a huge meal, to look forward to something. I know now that there is so much more to life than just surviving. Thank you for teaching me that. And, in the spring, when you go back to your home, I will miss your company."
"I'm not going home," Isabelle said, pulling away from him abruptly. "I cannot go back, not like this. Even if I was cured of this curse, what future would I have there? There would be scandals and rumor about my journey; I would be left as a spinster. That would cost my family too much. Better for them to think me dead, than for that…" Isabelle's composure broke. She wiped away her tears on the back of her hand.
"Isabelle," Trestan said tentatively, "Come with me, then." Isabelle stared at him. She had expected anything but this sudden, unbidden plan. "We can break our curses together. We could go to Greece, or even Cathay, if you wish. There is no need to condemn yourself to a life of despair. Next autumn, we can take a visit to your home, to assure your family that you are well. Things will work; you have my word of honor on that."
"I shall go with you then," Isabelle said, stepping towards him. "Oh Trestan, merci." Tears began flowing down Isabelle's face again as she began to sob. Trestan wiped them away with his thumb.
"What is wrong?" he whispered.
"It is like I'm leaving them all over again," Isabelle said bitterly. Embarrassed, Trestan hesitantly put his strong, comforting arms around her. Isabelle leaned her head onto his chest and cried.
"It won't be forever," Trestan said gently. "I promise you."
"I'm so glad that you are here," Isabelle sniffed, trying to regain her composure. "You are always so kind."
"If only I could believe that," he muttered, gingerly stroking her brown hair.