Rootbound (Tangled)

Chapter One Rapunzel

One

Rapunzel

Rapunzel’s neck is too cold.

It’s a silly thing to be hung up on at a ball.

Not just any ball—a ball in the royal palace.

A ball thrown for her. The hushed grand ballroom looks like a dream she would have painted back in Gothel’s tower only a month ago, with glittering chandeliers swaying above and echoes of candlelight in the gold-flecked marble floor, its smooth tiles pressing through the soles of the satin slippers she’s almost tripped on twice tonight.

It’s just that everyone is watching her cross the mostly empty dance floor, arm in arm with the queen, bound for where the king—no, Father—waits at the heart of an inlaid golden sun.

And it’s just that she’s still not used to hems that skim the floor instead of her calves, or a bodice of barely too stiff brocade, or even a gown she didn’t sew herself.

And it’s just that for eighteen years, birthdays meant hazelnut soup and tiptoeing to the window to watch the lanterns once Mothe—no, not Mother; Gothel—fell asleep.

Not ball gowns. Not feasts. Not fireworks. And certainly not a waltz with Father in front of the most important people in the realm.

And to top it all off, every time the short strands of her now-brunette hair tickle the back of her (cold!) neck, she has to hide the shiver zipping down her backbone.

“You’re going to do wonderfully,” her mother whispers, hand snug on Rapunzel’s elbow.

Rapunzel doesn’t know how the queen does it, gliding over the floor smoother than paint under a palette knife, as if no one is watching and she does this every day.

(Not “the queen.” Mother.) “Madame Frangeline says you have a gift.”

Madame Frangeline was saddled with training Rapunzel to dance like a courtier instead of a feral princess for this ball. After the last two weeks of jabs from the madame’s training baton, Rapunzel suspects her only gift is kicking her partner in the shin.

“I won’t let you down,” Rapunzel promises.

Her mother slows just before they reach the king.

Her arm unwinds from Rapunzel’s, but her fingertips graze the side of Rapunzel’s cheek, a faint line digging between her brows despite the reassuring smile.

“Sweetheart, just having you here is a miracle. This is your night. All you need to do is enjoy yourself.”

Over her mother’s shoulder, Rapunzel finds Eugene in the waiting crowd. His tilted smile grows when their eyes meet, his chin dipping in a nod. Somehow he looks even more at ease in this sea of dignitaries than she feels.

Maybe, if they can get a dance later, she’ll ask how he does it.

“Thank you for all of this, Mother,” Rapunzel says, and walks the last few feet to the king.

She’s practiced the formal curtsy nearly as much as her dancing, with marginally the same outcomes.

Now, in front of the whole ballroom, it’s halting and ungainly, and her knee wiggles a little as she rises, but at least she manages not to kick the king in the shin.

(Rapunzel thinks that may be a hanging offense.) Her father’s mustache wobbles at the ends as he bows in return and offers his hand, and the orchestra finally looses the first notes of the waltz.

Rapunzel takes his hand. She’s learned Father’s mustache wobbles that way when he’s holding something back; she’s still trying to sort out if it means the same thing as when Gothel’s footsteps on the stairs creaked a little too fast. “I’m going to keep practicing my curtsy.”

“You were perfect,” he says as the dance begins, but his mustache wobbles again when she can’t keep the doubt off her face. “It’s just…remarkable,” he tells her. “When I first met your mother, she had a devil of a time keeping her knee steady in a curtsy, too.”

“Really?” Rapunzel blurts out.

“Really.” Her father’s face softens even more as he glances toward the queen. “And she practiced for—”

He sucks in a breath. Rapunzel realizes she’s stepped directly on his boot toe.

But before she can squeak out an apology, her father shifts his feet and keeps leading them through the waltz.

“Practiced for years,” the king finishes with an astonishing wink. “Remember, tonight is us making up for eighteen years of lost birthdays, not you. Now here comes the spin—”

Rapunzel is a little surer in a twirl. It’s only been a month since she left her tower, and some of this whole new life is better, and some of it is harder, and some of it is just—different.

She still holds her breath when she wakes up, ready to gauge Gothel’s mood by how she bangs around the kitchen, only to hear birdsong and a bubbling fountain in the garden below her window.

She can’t stop tugging on her sleeves, only to remember her dresses actually fit now.

And she knew how to twirl despite seventy feet of hair, but even in a ballroom, in front of her new family and all these important people, it’s so, so much easier to move without that weight.

The ballroom whirls around her almost like the floating lanterns, and when Father catches her hands again, he’s beaming. “Just like that.”

The steps come easier, back, left, close the box, even as eyes bore into the back of Rapunzel’s neck. “Do you ever get used to the staring?”

Her father’s brows rise. “Yes and no,” he admits. “I hated it when I was younger.”

“What changed?”

“I met your mother,” he says with a rueful laugh. “And I realized sometimes people stare because they like what they see.”

Rapunzel finds Eugene in the crowd again. His eyes are still on her. The knot in her stomach dissolves into pleasant butterflies. “Oh.”

Then she’s spinning again, and if she lets the faces and lights blur, she can almost believe she’s back in the boat last month, swaying on the bay in the galaxy of lanterns. For a few more breaths, it’s just the box step and twirl, back and forth, left and right and spin, and then—

The music sweeps to a grand finish. The king lets her go with a smooth bow, and this time, when she curtsies, her knee doesn’t falter at all.

“Well done,” he says as the ballroom rings with polite applause. “It’s all easy sailing from here, so go have fun.”

For exactly four and three quarters of the next dances, the king is right.

She dances with an earl, a councilor, the mayor, a brigadier general, and now jolly old Duke Louis of Maenvale.

He’s spent most of the lively gavotte extolling the virtues of his nephew’s vineyards.

All Rapunzel knows about wine at this point is that it typically comes in red and white, but the duke is delighted to carry the conversation himself, and she can smile and nod and concentrate on the footwork.

And then they enter the final turn.

“…unless it comes from the Campina region, otherwise it’s just sparkling wine,” the ruddy-faced duke is saying. Then: “I say, what an extraordinary brooch, Your Highness.”

“Brooch?” Rapunzel looks down at her bodice.

There’s a coil of gold there, one she doesn’t remember pinning on. Just as she registers the pebbled surface, Duke Louis adds, “I can’t believe I didn’t spot it before. Is it a…dragon?”

“Pascal,” Rapunzel gasps. The duke blinks at her, bemused. She hastily fibs: “The jeweler! Her name was Pascale.”

“Wonderful craftsmanship,” says Duke Louis with a stout nod.

The gavotte bounces to an end. The duke bows and steps away. Rapunzel hisses, “Pascal, we talked about this! You can’t be here!”

The chameleon cracks an eye open and lets out a stubborn bihrrrr.

“May I have the next dance, Your Highness?”

Of all the people here that Rapunzel doesn’t want seeing her talk to herself, Minister Cressien is probably at the top of the list. Minister Cressien is one of her parents’ most trusted advisors.

Minister Cressien is in all things composed, polished, and unflappable; tonight, his peacock-blue velvet doublet perfectly sets off his cool brown complexion, the silver trim precisely calculated to complement his short-cropped gray hair.

Minister Cressien, it is rumored, has been summoned for emergency meetings in the middle of the night and never answered the door in anything more casual than a three-piece suit.

And Minister Cressien, in particular, looked like he’d found a snail in his salad the moment her parents introduced her to their council of advisors.

“O-of course,” she stammers, her swift curtsy teetering precariously.

When she straightens, the minister has already risen from his bow.

A dour pinch to his line-framed mouth defies the merry bourrée now soaring from the orchestra.

The contrast is even starker as they skip sideways and back, his long silence making her wonder if he’s spied Pascal after all.

But when Rapunzel sneaks a look, the chameleon is gone.

“I understand you’ve”—Minister Cressien glances down briefly—“accustomed yourself to shoes.”

In fact, the slippers may be giving her blisters. Rapunzel can’t help an awkward giggle as she tries not to panic. “It’s, uh, a work in progress, I guess?”

“Mm.” The minister’s slender mahogany fingers close around hers as they move forward one step, two, three. “I would encourage that progress to continue, Your Highness.”

They let go and face each other again. Rapunzel’s hands slip on the silk of her skirts as she briefly fans them out. Where did Pascal go? “I’m—I’m planning on it.”

Cressien fixes a grave hazel stare on her.

“As minister of diplomatic affairs, I have found that the key to understanding is a common language, not just in words, but in deeds. Every member of nobility speaks etiquette. It would be in your best interests, Your Highness, to strive for fluency. Quickly.”

Rapunzel isn’t even sure how to respond to that.

The words evade her entirely, though, when she realizes Pascal is now clinging to the front of the minister’s velvet doublet.

“I—I agree.” She falters, trying not to gawk at the chameleon. “I would hate to be seen”—Rapunzel leans on seen as a load-bearing warning to Pascal, and his hide shifts to match the doublet’s deep teal as she tries not to frown—“as a step back for my family.”