Chapter 4
The horizon was empty.
Rapunzel sat in the windowsill and stared out over the plain, the lake, the mountain ridges—at the world she now knew to lie beyond, in smells and tastes and colors. The gems in her hands crackled as she thoughtlessly changed their shapes and textures.
He should have been here by now.
He should have been here an hour ago.
Had something gone wrong? Had he been hurt? Nonsense, she tried to tell herself, he was the champion of Linne and Raghnar of Svirla’s favorite—but if nothing had happened to him, she had to draw other unpleasant conclusions.
If he could have been here, she had no choice but to assume he didn’t want to be.
That odd wince yesterday … Had she said anything wrong? Called him an idiot once too often? But that didn’t make sense. He liked it when she called him an idiot, didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
She turned away, flung her gems aside, and hurried up the stairs to her bedroom wardrobe.
Egill’s many gifts lay hidden behind piles of dresses and socks and coats.
They felt reassuring in her hands, the dried flowers and the food and the many paintings and drawings—no, he would come back.
Of course he would. No one would make all this effort for nothing, would they?
But the plain remained empty.
The hours crawled by like years; she moved from window to wardrobe and back again, running every gift through her hands, arranging them in her blankets as if they would magically pull him back to her.
Gods, why was she sitting here stuck in this stupid tower, unable to find out whether he was even dead or alive?
Perhaps he’d been called away for other missions …
but what would be so urgent he couldn’t fade by to let her know he'd be back tomorrow?
“Rapunzel?”
She dropped her painting as her heart slammed into her throat.
And then—one heart-wrenching moment too late—she realized it hadn’t been Egill’s voice.
Gothel. Had so much time gone by already? She rushed to the window to find that unmistakable head of black curls at the foot of her tower. Oh, Orin help her. No time to shove the pile of gifts back into the closet—not without raising suspicion.
“Coming!” she got out, her voice too shrill, and raced down to the living room. She’d have to be clever, she resolved as she flung her hair down. How hard could it be to keep Gothel from her bedroom?
She was still blinking the bitter tears away when Gothel clambered over the windowsill with catlike grace, the knives at her belt shining in the sunlight. One look at her, and Orin’s priestess sharply said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” Rapunzel blurted out. Everything. Reeling in her hair, glad for the excuse to look away, she sheepishly added, “I just … accidentally looked into the sun.”
Gothel raised a slender eyebrow as she shook the usual bag of food from her shoulders. “The sun’s on the other side of the tower, Rapunzel. What is it?”
“A … a headache?” Gods be damned, she was bad at this. She’d never needed to lie to her guardians before. “I’ve slept poorly, perhaps. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I told you so many times you shouldn’t sleep with the windows closed,” Gothel said with an exasperated sigh. “Let me make sure you get some fresh air in …”
“No!” Rapunzel lunged forward, then realized dragging the other woman away from the stairs wouldn’t be any less suspicious. “I mean … there’s no need for that, Gothel. I’ve been airing the room all day!”
Gothel stared at her. “Rapunzel. What are you hiding?”
“Hiding?” She swallowed. “What would I be hiding?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” Gothel said. Before Rapunzel could stop her, her guardian was climbing the steps two at a time, far too fast to stop her—
“What is this?”
Oh, no.
“Good gods, Rapunzel.” Was that anger or bewilderment? “Where did you get all these things? It’s—Orin help us, is this Phurys honey? That stuff costs a fortune these days!”
Rapunzel stood paralyzed at the foot of the stairs, shivering, squeezing her eyes shut. The tower was still standing, and yet it felt as if the walls were crumbling down around her, taking life as she’d known it with them.
“Who’s been bringing you this?” Gothel jumped down in a single supple motion, Egill’s wolf dagger in her hand. “This is an alf weapon, little turnip. And not a cheap one, either—whoever gave you this, what did they want?”
“Nothing!” Well, except her gems—but he no longer cared about those, did he? “Really, Gothel, it was just a present from—from a friend—he’s been visiting me—to chat—”
“Who, Rapunzel?”
She swallowed again, her throat all thorns and thistles.
“Rapunzel.” She knew that tone. “I will find out, girl, and if you don’t tell me yourself, I’ll assume the worst about this friend of yours. So who was it?”
The worst.
Rapunzel glanced at those knives—bearing the magic of Orin himself, magic against which even the champion of Linne wouldn’t stand a chance—and breathed, “Egill.”
Gothel stiffened.
“But he’s been very friendly!” She looked up, words spilling over her lips. “Honestly, Gothel, there’s no need to hurt him—he’s been giving me presents and telling me about the world and—”
“Oh, Rapunzel.” Gothel let out an exasperated laugh as she flung the alf dagger into the couch and sank down at the table. “Oh, you poor, silly little turnip—Egill of Gjalheim, you say? Arrogant alf bastard?”
“You … you’ve heard of him?”
“Of course I’ve heard of him,” Gothel said sharply. “According to our informants, he’s been promising you to bloody Raghnar of Svirla in return for the bastard’s daughter’s hand.”
Rapunzel gaped at her.
“I didn’t think to warn you about it,” Gothel added, rubbing her fingers over her temple. “There are ten different idiots scheming to abduct you at any given time, you’d never have a calm day—and I assumed you’d warn me if any sweet-talking alf warriors showed up.”
Sweet-talking. The … the hand of Raghnar’s daughter? Rapunzel felt her own voice crack as she whispered, “But what if he changed his mind about it?”
Gothel scoffed. “Since the day before yesterday?”
“Since … what?”
“That’s when he was last telling Raghnar about his plans to lure you from this tower. I had no idea he was already … did he get in, Rapunzel?”
She no longer knew what to answer.
She no longer knew how to speak.
He got in, yes. He got far further than that. He’d made her think … hell, that he loved her? All those gifts … Had he just been preparing for some backhanded proposal to show her the beauty of the world outside?
So he could go marry some other damn girl?
“Oh, Rapunzel,” Gothel said again, the disappointment in her voice so thick Rapunzel felt like withering on the spot. “I thought you’d be wiser than that.”
“But … he …” The floor swayed. “But …”
“I’ll talk about this with Orin. Until then …” Gothel got up. Rapunzel, gaze fixed on the table, couldn’t bring herself to look at her. “Until then, I shouldn’t leave the key to this tower in your hands.”
“The … what?”
Metal shrieked behind her.
A knife? Rapunzel tried to whirl around and found she couldn’t. Gothel’s hand had locked around her braid, and before she could process what was happening, there was a tug at her hair …
And lightness.
Rapunzel stumbled forward, the familiar weight at the base of her skull suddenly gone. Her hair. Her hair was gone.
“Gothel!” What was happening? What had she done? She staggered around, voice cracking, “Gothel, what are you—”
“I’m taking matters into my own hands,” Gothel interrupted, tying a ribbon around the ragged end of those feet and feet of hair—her hair. Tears sprung in Rapunzel’s eyes as she felt the back of her head and found only frayed plucks where her braid had been.
“How—how could you …”
“How could you allow some alf into this home without telling me?” Gothel said sharply. “We wouldn’t have been in this mess if you had been sensible, girl. Now go upstairs and let me deal with that liar, will you?”
That liar. Egill. “But … but …”
“It wasn't a suggestion, Hadewych.”
Rapunzel stared at her guardian, her sight suddenly misty.
But he should have been here already. But something is wrong—so very wrong.
She didn’t dare to speak the words anymore.
All she wanted was to crawl beneath her bed and wait for everything to be over—Gothel’s wrath and her hair and Egill’s betrayal.
Lure you from this tower.
A sob escaped her lips. She turned without another word, fled upstairs, and huddled below her blankets like when she was six years old and plagued by nightmares.
In return for the bastard’s daughter’s hand.
How could he? How could he! And yet, even sobbing into the darkness, she found herself wishing he wouldn’t come back at all. At least then she could tell herself he’d changed his mind. At least then he wouldn’t have to face Gothel’s magic.
Hours went by as she lay curled up in the darkness, wishing she would just stop existing.
Then …
“Rapunzel?”
Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Dusk had fallen when she peeked out below her blankets. She wanted to reply, wanted to tell him she hated him, wanted to warn him to flee … but Gothel would be furious.
Orin might be furious.
She clenched her fingers into her blankets and bit her tongue.
“Rapunzel?” He sounded exhausted. “Rapunzel, let down your hair. Please. I have to tell you something.”
Her hair. She let out another sob. She’d never let down her hair again. She’d …
“Oh, thank you,” Egill said hoarsely outside, “thank you, thank you,” and only then did she realize what must have happened.
Gothel had let down her hair.
Her hair.
She shot straight up in bed, breath shallow, fury and fear mingling to a sickening whirlwind in her chest. Why must Gothel be the one to deal with the bastard’s betrayal, damn it? Why couldn’t she tell him he was a monster and a sorry excuse for a champion? And why did he have to … to …
To get hurt?
Why did she still want him?